like to see you
by crearealidad
Summary: Sober, I feel like a groupie, president of her fan club who won a fantasy night (and apparently morning after) in some contest because my brain just won't stop swooning each time it obsesses with the fact that this is Kate Beckett kissing me.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** only vague reference to S3, though Author's Note #2 contains references to S4 finale.

**General Warning:** This story is about the pairing Alexis/Kate and is rated M for a very good reason.

**Author's Note #1)** This is another response to the Beckett/Castle kink meme, though admittedly, I've kinda twisted it slightly from what I assume was the original intent.

The prompt was: Kate takes Alexis out drinking for her 21st birthday and after a few drinks, Kate confesses she had some same sex encounters during college. Alexis asks Kate to show her how to please a woman.

**Author's Note #2)** This story assumes (for me at least) that things between Beckett and Castle don't work out. They remain friends and Castle still shadows Beckett. I set it two years out from the S4 finale when I believe Alexis would be turning 21 based on the series timeline. _And_ because I can't remember any reference to when Alexis's birthday actually is, I'm imagining it in early summer (late May or June). I just feel the need to qualify this slightly because otherwise, my brain would be a little too… squicked out.

Yes, I completely feel the need to justify the fact that I wrote this. This is probably the longest section of author's notes I've ever included.

* * *

"Why don't we go out?"

She doesn't mean it the way I'd like to think she means it, but it gets my cheeks burning anyway. "My friends are taking me out on Saturday, you don't need—"

The detective shakes her head slightly and interrupts. "It doesn't have to be a full blown party, but today is your twenty-first birthday. It just doesn't seem right to spend the actual day by yourself in your dad's place. I'll take you out, treat you to a drink, maybe get someone to sing you happy birthday."

Kate smiles encouragingly, gesturing around the empty loft. With my dad off on a book tour, coming home from college had been strange, and while it feels a bit strange to be invited out by her, I had been disappointed to find that I'd be spending the night alone. I mean to answer her verbally, but my stomach's doing little flip-flops because she's touching me, her fingers brushing along my waist as she hooks her arm in mine. I must have nodded because she nearly has me out the door before I realize I'm not even wearing shoes. "Wait, I should really… get dressed."

She smiles and releases my arm, switching to wait against the doorframe, watching me climb the stairs. I wondered, as I traded my pajamas pants for a pair of jeans, when I was going to stop feeling like the little schoolgirl with the crush around Kate Beckett. Even the knowledge that she had likely been involved with my dad refused to dissuade the nervous blushing and distracting infatuation that I felt around the woman.

The crush is certainly nothing new, but since spending sometime with her over Christmas vacation, something decidedly more like attraction had begun to stir. She come to our New Years Eve party, still dressed for work in a pair of jeans and a pale blouse tucked under her leather jacket, and we'd ended up on the rooftop to avoid the vapid, over-dressed party-goers from my dad's publisher. We'd shared a big blanket and after a bit of champagne, she'd started swapping stories about her college days – most of hers making mine look incredibly tame in comparison. Her presence and warmth had washed over me, leaving me fairly hypnotized by her adventurous spirit and the way her wide smile left me wondering what it would be like to kiss her. With the lights of New York City scattering across her face, she seemed beautiful, almost magical, and my heart was beating like a trip hammer each time her gaze settled on my face and I felt all that beauty directed at me.

We stayed there until well after midnight to be sure to avoid the last few revelers and even though we were fairly shivering, I found myself reluctant to leave her. Her bravery and strength left me a bit in awe, and as we climbed back down the narrows stairs to the loft, I couldn't seem to squelch the nervous ache that was building inside of me. I lay in bed later, confused and aroused by thoughts of touching her. In the months since that night, the images had evolved past kisses and tentative touches to dreams of full-fledged encounters which left my body tingly and aching when I woke in the morning. I'd even gone as far as looking up porn and sex guides on lesbian sex to enhance my imagination.

And now, here I am. I'm letting her take me out for drinks on my birthday.

Scanning my room, I search for the right shoes. I hadn't brought much with me from my dorm room and most of what I kept here consisted of the flats and colored tennis shoes of my high school days. If I am going to go have my first alcoholic drink as an adult with Kate Beckett, I most definitely do not want to feel like a high schooler. It isn't a date and it's all in my head, but I still hate the idea of being seen as "just a kid" with her.

Finally, I settle on the black boots that set me a few inches taller and matched the leather jacket hanging on the back of the door. I check myself in the mirror, pausing to consider clipping back my hair, which hangs loosely around my shoulders. Growing out my bangs made it more troublesome, but as I swept it back in one hand in consideration, I found it looked too formal and tight, and let it swing back over my shoulders.

With that, I head back towards her. As I reach the top of the stairs, I find Kate is still waiting at the door, looking up as my boots begin to click down the stairs. Perhaps it's my imagination, but she seems surprised or at least aware that this is a different look and cocks her head slightly to the side as she asks, "Ready?"

"Sure," I responded, letting her open the door.

I let her pick the bar and am surprised to find us in a rather laid back place. There is live music – something bluesy with heavy percussion – and it is brighter than what I'd grown accustomed to. Mostly my friends and I ended up in dance clubs where the strobe lighting that synchronized to the beat was the only light to be found. We sit at a booth along the back wall and a blond waitress comes to take our order.

While I'm busy producing my ID, Kate orders us both beer and it all feels too much like a date. She's smiling at me, watching as I hand over my driver's license. Once I tuck it back into my wallet, she nudges my foot with the toe of her boot and asks, "So… how does it feel?"

It feels like a strange question, especially in light of the way her gaze is making me blush all over again. I hope that the relatively shadowy room will hide most of it and look around, trying to focus on something else. "I don't really feel any different. I always expect milestones will make me feel… magically transformed. But usually that happens later – it hits me when something happens that I'm never going to be that young again."

She laughs at this but bites back what I'm guessing is the urge to remind me that I am still young, as if she can sense how madly I want to avoid being the "kid" tonight. Instead, she turns to smile at the waitress, who has come up behind me, and hands over her credit card after the blond sets down two beers in front of us. "Tonight's gonna be on me," she says, half to me, half to the woman. "She's the birthday girl. Why don't you start us a tab?"

The blonde nods, accepts Kate's card and disappears once more.

"I'm guessing this won't be your first beer," she says to me, lifting her own and taking a quick swig.

I shake my head in acknowledgement. "But I still won't let myself get completely drunk. When we drink, it's usually some huge party with people everywhere and it just doesn't feel safe to let go like that, you know?"

This gets her smiling and sort of rolls her eyes and leans back, getting comfortable against the bench. "I wish I'd had your rational thinking at that age. Might have saved me a lot of heartache. Not to mention a few not-so-pretty mornings."

Tentatively, I take a sip from the beer she ordered for me, surprised to find it takes less like crap than the cheap stuff I'd grown used to gulping from red plastic cups, and take a few more sips. She starts up a round of small talk then, asking me about classes and friends and professors until we're ready for another round of drinks. She lets me order for both of us, and we end up with little glasses of rum with coke as the band on stage starts to pick up the volume. It's getting a bit more crowded and I'm already feeling a little fuzzy when Kate gestures for me to come join her on her side of the booth, my heart tipping along with the beat of the music because she's so close. I find myself leaning on my elbows against the table so I can watch her more closely.

"So have you been seeing anyone?" she asks me as she turns to lean against the wall, facing me in the booth, tucking her knees up in front of her. The question is casual and she's taking a gulp of her rum and coke as she awaits my answer. But I can feel my throat go dry because that nervous crush just toppled over into something else. Maybe it's the alcohol blurring all those reasons why I shouldn't be interested in the woman sitting in front of me or maybe it's something else, but what had been just heat is suddenly arousal. My heart is pounding in my ears and I can hear a corny voice in my head answering her – _No, but I'd like to see you._

Somehow, I manage to not say it. It's such a terrible line. I even manage to not stare at her mouth as thoughts of kissing her against the wall race through my mind. But what comes out feels only slightly less stupid and I can't even meet her eye as I say, "No, but there's this woman…"

My voice breaks and I can't tell if she's surprised or just waiting for me to finish. I've got to be about fifty shades of beet red and I swallow my drink to fast, gulping it down and wishing that it didn't burn quite so harshly down my throat.

"Oh? Someone you met at school?" Kate's tone is even and when I manage to glance over at her, she gives me a reassuring smile as she puts a hand on my shoulder. It's all I can do to not just lean in closer, encourage her hand to go further.

Instead, to my horror, I hear myself beginning to babble nervously and I have no idea where I'm going with this.

"Not really. I've known her for a while, I guess. I just sort of started seeing her… differently. But I have no idea where to start. Or if I should start. It's not like I'm not okay with being attracted to a woman, but things have always been one way with us and now I have these feelings and I don't even know if she'd be interested. And even if she was, I don't know the first thing about… that. It shouldn't be that different, but it is and I just-"

My eyes are so focused on the table, I don't even see her motion for another round of drinks, but it arrives, more rum and coke, and it stops my rambling. Nervously, I take it and start sipping, hoping that it will be the proverbial liquid courage it's supposed to be as I turn to look at her.

She's listening patiently, head propped against her hand with her drink in her other hand, with one leg dropped down; the other folded between us. Her eyes flick away for only a moment and I can see her gathering her thoughts as she takes another heavy swallow. As looks down into her glass, those heavy lashes hooding her eyes, I think she might be blushing, but her cheeks are hidden by shadow and I feel myself respond with a new ache as she bites down on her lower lip. _Bet she tastes good…_

"Falling for a friend like that… it can be complicated. Especially another girl," she starts, lifting her gaze to mine. "But in a lot of ways, the beginning isn't all that different than guys." The implied admission is quiet, almost too soft to hear, but it emboldens me in a way I had never expected.

"So you've…" I ask, needing confirmation.

"Yeah, a few times when I was younger. Mostly it was experimentation, but I did date a girl I met when I was pre-law at Stanford for a while. A couple months," she replies shakily. I think her fingers are trembling a bit around her glass as she downs the rest of her drink in a few gulps. As she sets down her glass, she seems to drift off, eyes closing slightly.

She suddenly sits up then, turning to face the table and leans both elbows heavily on it. I watch her rake her curls back and I can't stop the hand that lifts up, comes to rest at her back, wanting to pull her back from where ever she's gone. The t-shirt she's wearing is thin and I can feel the warmth and tension of the muscles beneath. That immature little voice is back, singing-songing about touching Kate Beckett and I have to fight to tamp down the little ripple of excitement it gives me. While I've dated guys and even slept with two, it feels different with her - both the touch itself and the dynamic of it. It makes me nervous and I feel my fingers fluttering as I try to comfort her.

Even so, I can't seem to stop myself from curling my finger tips along her back, following the line of her spine, coming to rest between her shoulder blades as I feel her silky hair brushing against my skin. She draws in a breath then, turning to face me without sitting back.

"Do you still find yourself attracted to women?" I ask, trying to draw the conversation away from whatever memory seemed to have caught her so off guard.

She gave a little eye roll at this. "Definitely. It just hasn't gone beyond that with anyone lately. Just physical attraction, you know?" That too wide smile comes back and it unfurls a coiled tension in my chest that I hadn't even noticed was there.

After a moment, I nod in response before taking another drink. Tipsy and emboldened, I hear myself asking before I can censor it, "What about me? Could you be attracted to me?" Her eyes flash over to me in what looks like panic and I hurry to stammer out an explanation. "As a woman. I mean. I feel like women see other women differently and I just wondered if you think women would find me… attractive."

Relief floods her features as I stumble over myself. She ducks her head and then manages to give me a smile. "Trust me, you've got nothing to worry about." It's no where near what I want to hear, but it makes my stomach flutter with excitement anyway.

_Neither do you_, the voice answers as I drag my eyes over her. _I'd do you._

I'm never more grateful that mind reading is little more than a science fiction myth than I am at that moment. Embarrassment and shock at the audacious voice in my head washed over me. Closing my eyes, I feel the room swirling, the alcohol clearly crawling through my veins and doing its thing.

"So what do you think you'll do?"

The question catches me off guard and my eyes pop open, seeking her quickly. I'm licking my lips, warning that voice to keep quiet as I try to remember what we'd been discussing.

"I don't know. Probably nothing. I don't want to ruin things with her. And besides," I answer vaguely, squashing the scenario of telling the truth to an eager and willing (if imaginary) Kate Beckett. "I'm not sure I'd know what to do... Physically, you know?"

"For what it's worth, I think you should give it a shot. It sounds like you really like her… You never know," she says, draining the droplets from her glass with a little toss of her head. "Maybe she's thinking the same things. Plus, the physical part? Not as tricky as it seems. I'm sure you'd be a natural." She's smirking. Smirking. It makes my chest tighten because, if she knew what I'd really been rambling about, that would have been an invitation. Never mind that she has no clue, it feels too good because in a way, she's considering me like that, the way I've been considering her for months and she's close enough that I can smell the soft, clean scent of her that is more fruity than flowery. I'm aching and too aware that I'm drunk and there's a wetness between my thighs that is growing increasingly uncomfortable as I shift against the wooden bench.

Kate seems to realize my need to change the subject, if nothing else, and sets aside her glass with a little smile. "Want to try some shots? I promise I'll keep an eye out for you if you get too tipsy."

I let out quick burst of laughter to cover up the blush and stifle that little voice that's leering, _I'd like that._

"Sound's fun," comes out of me instead. I let her order shots of whiskey. They make my eyes water and my throat burn and it all goes straight to my head. She cheers me on and I find myself telling her all about the party my friends have planned for me on the weekend before recounting the embarrassing incident in which I'd accidentally walked in on my study partner having sex with her boyfriend on a lab table.

By the time I finish off the third shot, I'm having trouble sitting up straight and my libido is reveling in the fact that Kate Beckett is letting me lean my head against her shoulder. I may have been nuzzling her slightly, breathing in the scent of her. When I realize that I need to go to the bathroom, I try to sit up and end up swaying precariously.

"You got me drunk," I slur, turning to find her face too close. She's been doing shots too and her breath is heavy with whiskey as she smiles apologetically.

"Need to pee," I mutter and I'm too busy being embarrassed because I sound like a whiney twelve year old to notice, at first, that she's got an arm around my waist, helping me to my feet.

The heels on my boots prove complicated and I end up with an arm over her shoulder as we stumble towards the hall off the side of the stage. The hallway muffles the music and the people and is much darker than the rest of the bar and somewhere in my clouded mind, I know this wasn't such a good idea.

When I stumble, Kate ends up pressed against the walls, laughing as my hands fumble, seeking to find my balance and some distance from the enticing, soft jut of her breasts against my own. A gasp drags from Kate's lips as she tries to push off the wall and my hand ends up grasping her bicep. I stumble again and somehow my face is buried against her shoulder. My lips slide until they find the bare skin of her throat and I feel her fingers digging into my waist.

"Fuck," she moans and any thought of stopping is lost in the surge of heat that races through me at the sound of her. Then her hips are rocking against me and I can't help but wonder if maybe she knew what I had been rambling about earlier after all because she feels hot and eager. And then I'm kissing her.

Her mouth opens breathing hot, whiskey-drenched air into my mouth, letting me nip and suck at her lip until one of her hands drags upwards, fingers tangling into my hair and tightening until she can pull my head back, forcefully tilting my chin upward so she can leave a warm, wet trail along my throat with her mouth. Then, her thigh is wedging its way between my own and pressing up, so tight, and I can't seem to catch my breath.

She's the one pinned to the wall, but I seem to be helpless to do anything but melt into her touch. My face is buried in her hair as she clings to me, one hand roving my waist and the my back while the other lingers in my hair, turning me to grant her access to the next patch of skin she intends to set ablaze.

But just as quickly as it began, she's pulling back, hands dropping, back flat to the wall as she tries to meet my eye. "Wait… just…"

Breathless and flushed, she drops her gaze downward, biting down on her lip as she brings one hand back up to grip my shoulder, setting me back a few steps before pushing herself off the wall.

The hallway is whirling around me and I can feel my stomach clenching with what might just be too much alcohol, but feels like disappointment. Lifting my hand, I reach for the wall, stumbling back until I can feel it's cool presence supporting me. Opening my mouth, I try to say something, anything, but no sound comes out and she's just staring at the floor, her rasping, unsteady breath rushing in my head.

"We can't…" Kate mutters, breaking off quickly as she looks up and finds me staring back at her.

What I want to do is apologize. To explain myself. To back up and start over and somehow make the awful feeling that I've made a complete fool of myself go away. Instead, when my vocal chords finally decide to work, all I seem to be able to say is "Please." It comes out again and again as my hand finds her face, trying to draw her back.

She steps into my touch and mirrors my own gesture, her palm cupping my cheek and gently stroking back my hair. I'm surprised to realize that she looks mussed – lipstick smeared, her dark curls tussled and crumpled with a startled, almost wild look in her shadowed eyes. I did that to her and the realization has me dropping my hand down to her neck and tugging her back to me.

"I want…"

My words trail off because she gives in, lets me draw her close and kiss her once more. I feel insistent as I press my lips to hers. We're nearly the same height tonight and it feels like a strange angle for kissing, so I rise up on my toes and lean forward and bend myself over her, amazing myself with my newfound ability to draw a ragged groan from her lips.

When I pull away for a breath, she follows me, reuniting our lips for a brief kiss before pulling away completely. Her hand is on my wrist, pulling it away from her face so that she can drag me quickly into the bathroom.

She shuts the door behind us and leads me over to the sink, backing me against it until she has me trapped. "We've got to stop," she insists, her hands covering mine and stepping so close that our hips are pressed together.

"Why?"

My stupid question echoes in the small bathroom and she just sort of stares at me. Those hazel eyes are so bright in the harsh light of the bathroom and I can't believe how close she still is. With one hand, she rakes her hair back again and looks away, seeming shaky and confused as she worries her lip with her teeth. There are many answers to my question and neither of us seems interested in hearing them spoken out loud.

So she reforms her argument with exasperated sigh. "We can't do this here."

"Then let's leave. Please." The words are tumbling out of my brain so quickly I can't seem to stop them. "Just show me. Show me how to do this… I want _you_ to show me."

I'm looking into her eyes and see her give, just a little. She almost nods and I slide my hands up past hers, following along her arms to her shoulders and tug her closer, my mouth seemingly intent on tasting her skin once more as drag my lips against her pulse. I wish it didn't all feel so hazy, but it can't be helped.

When a throaty and broken "okay" slips from her lips as her chin tilts back, I bite at her throat before she can step back. She grabs my wrists and stills me, meeting my eyes squarely before speaking. "Just, go use the restroom. Then we'll go."

With that, she turns and walks back out of the bathroom, leaving me alone. Somehow I manage to make it into the stall and then back out into the bar. She's leaning against the bar and signing off on her tab, with my leather jacket slung over one arm. Once she's done, she turns and spots me watching her and gives me a nod before heading for the door.

I have to hurry to catch up with her and I can feel myself adjusting to the disconcerting impairment to my spatial recognition skills, my knees feeling a little steadier above my heels. She's already hailing a cab at the curb as I step outside and dart after her, managing somehow not to stumble. As we slide into the cab, she takes my hand in her own and pulls me close as she instructs the driver to take us to her place.

Once we're moving, she refuses to release her grip on me, holding it hostage on her knee as we ride through the city. We've already gone nearly ten blocks before she speaks, turning to face me for the first time, "Do you have any actual questions?"

Her tone is serious, but I'm not sure how to respond. The cab driver is talking and from the corner of my eye I can see he's wearing a Bluetooth headset, but he's right there and any kind of question that I might ask, I'm not entirely sure I can do in front of him, even if it does feel like all the filters between my head and my mouth have been completely washed away by the flood of arousal and alcohol.

As if she can hear my concerns, she suddenly burst out into laughter and for the first time, I wonder if she's actually more drunk than I thought. The laughter lasts too long and is a bit too hard considering all I did was glance at the guy in the front seat. As it dies down, she releases my hand and moves her own to insinuate itself around my waist, hauling me more tightly against her than before. "This is such a bad idea," she mumbles as she tilts her head towards me, her lips brushing against my ear. Lightly sucking at my earlobe, she nudges my hair aside with her nose with little puffs of warm air that nearly tickle they're so light. "But you just kept giving me that look – like you wanted me to _do you_ right there on the table…" As she pauses, the hand not wrapped around my waist finds my knee, then follows the inseam of my jeans upwards, her nails rasping against the rough fabric as she goes. When they reach the crotch of my jeans and she flattens her palm, pressing the length of it tightly against me, I let out a little hiss of pleasure as it makes my underwear slip against me.

"Shhh… just sit still and look straight ahead," she coaxes, her hand steadying against my center. I try, eyes focusing on the city lights going by as her mouth moves downward with short, soft kisses that quickly have me gasping for breath. I can smell her hair and whiskey filling the small space and I silently pray the driver is as engrossed in his conversation about baseball as he seems.

Her hand has started to move in a slow, rocking rhythm by the time we're near her place and I'm vaguely aware that I can smell my own wetness as she drags her fingers upward, then pulls away just as well pull up to the curb. I have to get out first and reach blindly for her hand, pulling her behind me in my eagerness, forcing her to pay the driver one handed.

Though I've only been to her place a few times, I basically remember the way and take the lead which makes her laugh. But she doesn't comment beyond that, just allows me to lead her by the hand to her door. I'm so on edge and can't seem to break our contact long enough to allow her to get out her keys. After a few attempts, she pulls away and then quickly manages to extract them from her pocket, letting us inside.

The worst of the spinning and swaying is over, the alcohol seeming to have moved on to simply leaving my limbs feeling overly-warm and tingly, but as we enter, something surges inside me that has me grabbing for her. I still can't quite believe she's agreed to this, that she wants this, and I need to make sure she doesn't have a chance to over-think the situation. My solution ends up being to press her back against the inside of her door, my hands making a grab for my jacket, which she still had draped over her arm, and tossing it aside to give me room to touch.

She seems amused at my haste, smiling against my cheek as my hands explore upwards from her waist. Her t-shirt bunches slightly as I drag my fingers upward, hesitating at the undersides of her breasts. Looking down at my hands cupping her sides at her ribcage, I can feel the soft weight of them against my thumbs and pause to watch the rise and fall of her chest before bringing my hands upward, palming each breast with one hand, feeling my thumb drag against her stiff nipples in surprise. Her reaction is quick – a shuddered gasp followed by a hand at the back of my neck, dragging my lips to her own.

Opening my mouth against hers, I feel breathless as she darts her tongue against my lip, sucking soft breaths from my lips as she angles her own lips to deepen the kiss. My thumb twitches against her nipple and then I'm closing my fingers around them, pinching carefully at first, but then a bit hard when it earns me a muffled moan.

A little strangled gasp escapes her as my fingers suddenly pinch far more roughly than I'd planned, and she rips her lips back from mine and I open my eyes to find the heat flaring at her cheekbones, pink and glowing against her eyes. "Fuck, you sure you need lessons?" she mumbles, my hands trembling as they grope more broadly, then press downward, curling around her to cup her ass. She feels so tightly wound against me, each touch creating a clear counter-action – her hips thrusting forward as I explore the toned lines of the backs of her thighs and then back up to her ass.

I'm not sure what to say, so I initiate another kiss, swallowing the sound as I take my turn exploring. Her hand in my hair keeps me close, while the other suddenly finds it's way to bare skin just under the hem of the back of my t-shirt. My moan breaks the kiss and I can't concentrate, letting my lips suck and drag their way along her jaw, then down the side of her neck. She clings tightly, hand pushing up my back as I dare bring my hand to the front of her jeans, pressing against the fly, then to the inner seam as she'd done to me in the cab. I mimic her motion, pressing against the seam until I can feel her hips rock against my touch.

Her hips push me back, away from the door and she takes the chance to guide me to her bedroom, getting behind me with a little swirl. She's flicking on lights and setting things down behind me, but still reaches past me to open the bedroom door once we're there. The overhead light snaps on and she's urging me towards the bed with a smile.

I can't find time to think of anything but her and the pounding, heated need that has my body tight and demanding _more_ as she steps towards the bed, one hand hooked in the hem of my t-shirt. She sinks down on the edge and pulls me forward by the shirt until I'm standing between her legs. Her fingers sneak under the cotton and over my stomach, dragging back down to the waist of my jeans.

I have no idea what to do with my hands as I look down at her, wild brunette curls tickling me as her hands ruck up my t-shirt until it's crushed above my breasts, her mouth trailing from my navel then up until she's leaving these hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along the tops of my breasts. "Get this off," she says, indicating with one hand that she means my t-shirt, and I tug it off quickly, my hands settling lightly in her hair as her mouth lowers slightly, sucking and biting gently on my nipple through the cotton bra I'm wearing. Her hands slip around me then, unhooking my bra, then dragging it off quickly, bringing her mouth back against one nipple as she teases the other with her fingers.

I'm growing unsteady, my want distracting me from balance and I drop my hands to her shoulders. With a moan, I push her back, the teasing quickly getting to be too much. She smiles, seemingly knowing, and reaches for the fly of my jeans, unfastening them as I toe off my boots. My jeans are pushed down to my thighs, leaving me to remove them completely. Later, I might be embarrassed by the plain, basic white bra and panties I'm wearing, but she seems unconcerned with it, dragging the underwear down just as easily as my jeans.

But I can't be content to not see her and I find I'm dragging off her t-shirt, then her bra and then pressing her back against her bed. I've never gone this far with all the lights on before, even with a guy and it feels strange, to see her so clearly as she squirms out of her jeans. She's down to just a pair of dark blue underwear that's as basic cotton as my own and I am surprised to find just how arousing the scent of her is. It's obvious that she's just as I aroused as I am.

I knew that I was probably skipping a few steps, but my curiosity and desire got the best of me and I slid my hands along her thighs, still standing over her, to bring my fingers to her wet crotch. My fingers mold against the cotton, sliding back and forth until I can feel the harder, heated nub of her clit and I press tentatively, watching as she bites down on her lip as I give it slow, dragging touch. "Oh…" I mutter as I find it once more, rubbing a slow circle against it and cause her hips to rock upwards.

Her hands grip the sheets as I kneel down, drawing her underwear aside to look at her. I can see her muscles contract as my breath hits her, the musky scent of her swirling in my head. With one finger, I drag through the wetness of her folds, then bring the finger to my lips and feel her shift. She's half sitting up and watching me when I glance up, the finger still sucked slightly into my lips, tasting the saltiness of her. I can see the blotchy trail of flushed skin that's cover her and I almost don't recognize her like this, so clearly aroused and focused on me.

I want more and soon I'm dragging her underwear down, unhooking it from her ankles and bringing my hands back up to her hips so that I can kiss the silky soft skin of her thighs. Moving back towards her slit, I keep glancing up, seeing her watching me with darkened eyes, her hands bracing herself half-upright. As I reach her center once more, I hesitate, bringing my hands to help spread her, exposing her clit. With one more glance at her face, I bring my mouth to the raised nub, the tangy taste exploding against my mouth as I gently suck, listening to the rough grunt of anticipation that she makes. I try soft little nips with my teeth which make her hiss and writhe roughly, then open my lips against her completely, sucking and letting my tongue lap against her clit until I have to use my hands to steady her movements.

"Oh, god, Alexis…" she gasps, one of her hands suddenly tangling into my hair, drawing me rather forcefully up until our lips are touching, hers sucking and licking at mine, intent on tasting herself fully from my mouth. Then she's got her other hand around my waist and drags me down on the bed on top of her before rolling us over. Her hips come to rest against mine and she works on toned thigh between mine, letting it ride up against my slit with an urgency that surprises me.

And just that quickly, I'm losing track of everything. Her hand ends up between her thigh and my clit, her lips on my lips and jaw and throat as her other hand explores everywhere – my breasts, my stomach, my hips, eventually hitching one of my thighs up to wrap around her waist. She's grinding this rhythm against my clit that at first feels strange and then quickly sets me on fire. I can't scarcely breath as I try to tell her that I'm going to orgasm and she swallows the sounds with a kiss, her hand shifting to slide two fingers inside me, the heel of her wrist still grinding against my clit as her body keeps me pinned against the mattress. As I come, I'm gasping, "Oh…Kate," again and again, completely unaware of how my hands have been gripping and scraping along her back and her ass and any inch of skin that I can reach.

As the pulsing heat slowly subsides, I can feel her two fingers now back on my clit, still stroking with this light, gentle beat that sends twinges along my still over-sensitized skin. Her mouth is suckling soft kisses along my collarbone and I open my eyes to find her looking a bit surprised. My hands settle on her shoulder blades, caressing softly as she brings her mouth back to mine for a kiss.

I can't quite get up but I want to taste her again, want to bring her to make her head spin the way she'd done to me. And when she slowly withdraws her fingers and pulls her weight from on top of me, I shiver at the loss of her. Reaching out, I want her fingers and find them, bringing them to my mouth to taste the way she'd tasted from my lips. It feels strange to taste myself this way, mingled with the taste of her and with those big, hazel eyes watching me, but it feels heady and exciting and I suck one of her fingers fully into my mouth, letting my tongue lave over it. She seems to be settling in, drifting slowly and it stirs a mild sense of panic in me.

"I want to please you," I whisper, rolling onto my side to face her. Despite the relief the orgasm had brought me, I feel my heart starting to tighten once more as I reach out to pull her towards me, both of us scooting up to lie on our sides more completely on the bed. As we settle, I cup her face and lean in to kiss her lips lightly. "I probably shouldn't say this, but I really need to do this. I've always thought you were so amazing but for a few months now, I just can't seem to stop thinking about you like this and I know it's crazy and probably stupid, but I can't seem to stop and I just really…" my voice trails off as my lips find her jaw and she tilts her head to give me room. For a moment, I'm distracted, following the lines of her neck down to her shoulders, my hand drifting down to trail across the skin of her chest, lingering at the scars on her sternum and rib cage, faded and scarcely more than bumpy, pale marks.

As my fingertip trail down her stomach, she murmurs something unintelligible and I turn my eyes back to her in question.

"Please," she whimpers again, and suddenly I can see the need in her eyes that I had somehow missed. She's quivering and the light, trailing touch of my fingers has her stomach rippling under their wake. As my eyes move downward, she lifts one knee, parting her thighs to offer. Without another word, I move my hand down until it's slipping through the wet, slick skin there and I struggle to find her clit in how wet and warm she is. In a moment, her hand is on top of mine, molding my fingers to fold all but the first two down, and then she's guiding my fingers inside of her with a shaky grip. Her hot breath is so close as she gasps, "Fuck me, please…"

She's so slick inside and I start a slow, pumping rhythm, unable to tear my eyes away from the site of my fingers, sinking into her. I curl my fingertips, feeling the tightness of her and trying to settle my fingers against any surface that will create friction with so much wetness. As I drag against the walls of her, her hips buck in response, and soon find I can feel her tightening around me. When her hand comes to join mine, her fingers driving against her clit, I look up at to find her staring as I had been, at our hands between her legs.

Her shaky breaths get rougher, little pieces of syllables from my name and various forms of please and yes keep bubbling out of her as I try to match my speed with her fingers until she lets out a tight, heavy groan that clamps her thighs tight around our hands as she squints her eyes shut. I watch in amazement as her stomach and body tighten and then slowly relax with a series of twitching jerks and starts. Remembering her actions before, I keep my fingers inside of her, barely moving until she seems to return – eyes opening, her knee lifting slightly as she withdraws her hand.

I lick my fingers clean and smile at her, a strange sense of pride and excitement stirring in my stomach. She leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead, but then withdraws, rising from the bed. "Where are you going?"

"Lights," she replies, gesturing up at the ceiling before clicking off the light. The street lamps outside her window cast an orangey glow through the room, but it's much softer than the overhead and I watch as she moves around the room quietly for a moment, pausing at her bedside table to set an alarm clock.

Standing beside the bed, Kate puts her knee on the bed before gesturing towards the pillow and prompting, "Scoot up there."

I obey, my eyes still on her naked body, aware of her lack of modesty as she joins me. We settle against her pillows facing one another and on instinct, I put an arm over her waist, tucking the other under my head beneath the pillow. She sighs as I tug her closer and I can feel her heart still pounding in her chest against my breasts where they crush up against hers. A sort of heavy exhaustion is flooding me now and my eyes drift shut of their own volition.

Her body feels softer now against me, more pliable and I manage to tuck my cheek against her chest, feeling her breath stirring against my hair. As I drift off, I vaguely remember her hand against my cheek and her leg hitching over me, pulling out lower bodies closer. My last thoughts are of her, wondering if she's falling asleep too and skimming through overly-optimistic views of what I will find when I wake.

* * *

End note: At this point, this is a one shot because I don't know if I'll go on with it. We'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Apparently I couldn't stay away from this. There will be more. I didn't want to write a story about the issues this would bring up, but it's still stuck in my head, so here you go. More smut and a whole lot of angst.**

* * *

I wake to heat. Too much of it. I can feel the sweat sticking against my back and my body glued down and sunk into a too-soft mattress with unfamiliar sheets. Something is moving, but it's not me. The sway of the mattress shoots tension along the back of my neck straight to my head, the back pounding so hard I don't dare try to lift it, my stomach churning to mimic the throbbing in my brain. This is a hangover – apparently it is as bad as they say.

The space around me seems to be spinning and I reach out my arms, trying to steady myself against the flat surface. It helps but serves to also allow the light to filter through to my eyes, reigniting the headache. I need water and Tylenol and something to eat but I still can't quite figure out where I am. I should figure out where I am, but even considering it is making me nauseous, so I close my eyes, focusing instead on taking long, slow breaths to steady this shaky feeling.

It's not until the bed shifts once more beneath me and I catch the scent of coffee and something fried that I consider anything more than breathing. Instinctively, I tilt my head and dare a glance, but the light is too harsh and the world is a blur, so I just groan and turn my face back down into the mattress.

Then Kate – _Kate Beckett – _let's out a little laugh, almost a giggle, and I hear the hooks on her curtains swish and even with my eyes closed I can feel the darkness return.

Hangover or not, the mystery is solved then. I'm twenty-one and she's brought me breakfast and it wasn't that long ago that I was fucking Kate Beckett. That blush is back and I can't figure out how I missed the smell of sex hanging in the air – never mind that smell of her that had so fascinated me the night before.

"You awake?" Thank god she whispers it, because it still reverberates inside of my skull like a bomb and I must flinch because she lets out a sympathetic sound and then her hand is on my back. The touch is gentle and little too 'poor baby' but I'm not really any sort of position to object. "Brought some recovery supplies for you, they're on the nightstand."

Her hand whisks upward, smoothes back my hair, then disappears. She does too, stepping back from the side of the bed and I listen to her move around the room. I open my eyes carefully, ready to slam the shut if that spinning, burning, throbbing sensation returns. It does but it's muted now, the room cast in shadows and a dim glow from the sun filtering through the drapes.

The nightstand is loaded up with a bottle of pain relievers, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and what looks like a mountain of fried potatoes that matches the one Kate is digging into tucked up in the arm chair near her window. When she catches my gaze, she smiles, silently nodding before resuming her meal.

I glance down at myself, tangled up in her sheets, skin flushed, pressed with lines from linens – and a few that I'm fairly sure are _her – _still bare. It's awkward because I can't seem to move and she's pulled on a big t-shirt that isn't covering her entirely but is hiding far more than the rumpled cotton tangled in my legs. She's trying to look at her plate, but I can feel her watching me, stuffing forkfuls of potatoes into her mouth to silence whatever thoughts she's having. And she's definitely considering something, pausing to tug at her lip with her teeth; her head lowered just enough to indicate that she's distracted. I just cannot move or stop staring at her and my throat is far too dry to even consider trying to speak so apparently this weirdness isn't going to end until she finishes eating or I manage to pry myself up from her bed.

When she gets there first, unfolding those long legs and moving just beyond my gaze to set her plate on the dresser, my breath catches hard in my chest and I find I can't let it out as I wait. All those things that I'd ignored last night that make this so wrong and so weird are crashing back in on me because apparently I'm too hung over to be turned on by the sight of her barely-dressed, her throat marked with light red blotches from my mouth, standing in front of the mirror, carefully combing and smoothing her curls into something resembling normal. It's a mesmerizing sight and she's gorgeous but my body just can't go there right now, not when I'm not sure I can move without throwing up.

I'm really hoping that she'll say something. Hoping so hard it's bringing back that unbalanced, spinning feeling. She's done impulsive things like this before – not fucking her ex… whatever's daughter impulsive – but she's jumped into bed on the first date, had too much alcohol, gone too far in a public place, probably even made out in the back of a taxi before, but I've never gone anywhere close to this far without dating someone. So I'm laying here, staring at her back and just praying that she knows something that I don't.

The panic is rising, making it all so much worse and I need to move. Now.

Somehow I manage to flip onto my back, breaking the bed's mysterious magnetic hold on my body and the cool air hits my chest. It feels so good, I sigh, forgetting for just a moment that how exposed I am. Then Kate turns (did she see me turn over in the mirror?) and reality hits hard.

She's trying to hard to keep her eyes up, meeting mine, the hand still scrunching her curls going still as she looks at me. I really don't want her to apologize but she looks so damn guilt I'm sure that's what she's about to do. Holding my breath, my hand scrambled for the sheets, tugging and spreading and fluffing until it's draped over me.

"Really, now you're shy?" she teases gently, the word so much not what I expected that I find myself sitting up, squashing the pillows back against the headboard until I'm upright and leaning.

"I just…" I croak out. My throat hurts and head spins and I suddenly remember she brought me water for this. I grab for it, twisting off the top and swishing down a few long gulps, hoping we can just let that go. But she's waiting, as if she thinks I really had something more than gibberish that I was about to say. So I take a few more gulps, then sips, until she shifts, folding one leg under her to sit on the edge of the bed near me.

Once settled, she reaches for the nightstand and grabs the Tylenol, shaking out two caplets and handing them to me. I take them, trying to remember how I forgot about them, grateful that her expression has softened – a small smile tugging at her lips as she watches me. Maybe this isn't the end of the world, but a little reassurance feels good.

"We'll go out for lunch later, talk about all this if we need to. Until then, consider this just part of the experience," she offers. I want to accept but I know I've got to be gawking at her because I'm so sober now and way too aware.

I screw the lid back on the water and put it back on the nightstand to find her climbing into the bed, looming over me and planting one hand on the edge of the mattress while the other one makes it's way to my cheek. Her fingertips are gentle, skimming my hair back behind my ear, then tracing down to the tips. Maybe I am recovering a little because that feels good, no great and I can feel my nipples tighten beneath the sheets as she brushes a bit closer.

Her breath tastes like coffee as it brushes against my lips. I'm stuck in a whole new kind of way because she's hooked that hand behind my neck, tugging me forward just enough to tilt up my chin. It positions me for a kiss I can't return because she's got such a grip on me. I can only open up and let her angle her mouth over mine. And suddenly there's absolutely nothing wrong with being kissed by Kate Beckett.

She pulls back too soon and I can't seem to close my mouth, gaping at her as I watch darkness and desire swirl in her eyes. I want to ask for more but before I can speak, she's already ahead of me – lips crushing mine as she swings her leg over me so she's straddling my thighs and I can feel just how much she wants more.

Breathing is hard as she roughly tugs down the sheets, baring my chest to her once more and mouths, "Much better," against my mouth as she finally releases my neck to shift her hand to rest against my breast. Sober, I feel like a groupie, president of her fan club who won a fantasy night (and apparently morning after) in some contest because my brain just won't stop swooning each time it obsesses with the fact that this is Kate Beckett kissing me. Kate Beckett's hand on my breast. Kate Beckett pressing me down into Kate Beckett's bed and thrusting Kate Beckett's thighs against mine. It's so bad and I'm so awestruck that I can't seem to do anything useful, my hands eventually drifting to her back, smoothing and then grasping at the worn cotton that covers her skin.

My skin feels like it's on fire – tingling and hot and red and tight, preparing itself for her touch – and I'm wishing that we could plunge the room into darkness because it's not just arousal. I'm totally in over my head as her mouth plunges downward, finding my chin, then my neck, then my collarbone. She's way too good, too at ease, and I'm just a melting bumbling idiot grabbing at her shirt. I bet she's not once used my full name in her mind.

But she doesn't seem to mind my lethargic status, shifting and pulling at the sheets, lifting and resettling herself to free it from my frame. Rising up on her knees, she stretches up and pulls her shirt off before coming back once more, her hands slipping down my arms to take hold of my wrists, drags them up above my head holding them loosely as she resumes kissing the living sense out of me.

My hips are rocking upwards without my permission, nearly grinding against her center and she groans appreciatively, breaking the kiss enough to meet my eyes. The need is leaping out from her gaze and somehow gives my hands permission to move, wrestling free from her grasp and giving her a little push back. I feel a little less like a groupie when I find my fingers against her breasts, pushing her further upright. Her weight is resting heavily against my hips, the friction quickly growing slick and sticky from her arousal as I tilt forward and she arches to bring my lips to her breasts. I suck gently at first then graze my teeth carefully against her nipples to find that it makes her swear under her breath. It sounds beautiful and I repeat the move again, this time grasping a bit more tightly, tugging until a little gasp comes out of her that sounds like my name and she rocks her hips roughly down into mine.

I tease each nipple again and again, gradually nipping harder, tugging longer until her hands suddenly clasp my face, dragging me up with a frustrated growl. "God, you're gonna kill me…" I can't help but love the sound of her like this, so I let her kiss me, but slip my fingers back over her breasts and pinch gently at her peaks. Ripping back from the kiss, she throws me a deadly glare, but arches into the touch just the same. I tug and twist, gentling a bit as even the lightest brush is making her gasp, watching her head tilt back, eyes closed.

She's nearly as flushed as me when it's suddenly too much and she's grabbing my hands, bringing one to her face and the other down to where our hips are grinding together. "Enough teasing," she growls, pressing the pads of my fingers against her lips, sucking then licking at them until I'm too distracted to realize that she's lifted her hips until she's molding my fingers against her clit. I try to move my fingers, rub them against her clit, but she hold her hand firm, palm flat and aligned against the back of my hand, forcing me to move with her. It's a strange feeling because she's watching me and kissing my fingertips as she uses my hand to masturbate. It feels voyeuristic watching the pleasure ripple across her face as she rocks our hands against herself, but I'm not entirely sure which one of us is the voyeur and which is the exhibitionist because her eyes are fixed on mine and she's watching just as much as I am.

It doesn't take long, just long enough to make me desperate for more of her skin against mine, for her to get close. I can feel the trembling of her inner thighs around our hands. She suddenly drops the fingers at her lips and purposefully withdraws our joined hands from her center to bring them to my lips. My mouth is already open and she offers those fingers to me, glistening from her wetness and she doesn't have to tell me what she wants. I cover them with sucking, open-mouthed kisses as she moves from on top of me, to the bed beside me.

As she settles back against the pillows, she smoothes her palm along my cheek and pulls me towards her. I follow amazed at how much her chest is heaving as she tries to catch her breath. All those curls she's tried to arrange are once more a tangled, silky mess and I try to smooth them back from her face as she speaks, "I want you to use these…" Her finger finds my lips then, dragging across the bottom then the top, her other hand heavy on my shoulder, pushing me downward.

I can't do anything but obey, letting her guide me to the space between her legs. She's stretched back, propped up watching me as I lower my gaze to the wet pink flesh between her thighs. It's intimidating like this now that I'm sober and she is too and I'm not sure where to put my mouth because fingers and fucking are things I know, not lips and tongues and teeth, not here anyway.

I'm thinking way too much and thank god when she finally comes to my rescue, those long fingers of hers appearing on her thigh. She parts herself and slips two fingers across her clit as if to show me. Her other hand brushes my hair back from my face and then presses down. "Please… Alexis," she groans, her fingers insistently pressing into her clit until I relent, lips pressing and sucking as she makes room. Her hand tightens, far more demanding, making my teeth press into her. I have to grip her thighs to steady her, the slick nub difficult to target as she bucks and grinds against me.

There's no need to slip my fingers inside of her this time – she's so close that it seems like mere moments before she's arching, squeezing me maybe a little too much with her thighs. But I slide my tongue against her instead, stroking the length of her folds as she comes down, her fingers nearly knotted in my hair, tasting her until she finally stills.

I have to help her untangle her fingers when her nail catches in the strands, pulling a few out. Laughing, I take her hand and unsnag the offending nail before raking my hair back. When I look up, she's looks almost shy as she props herself up a little higher, wiping her hand against the sheets. She looks rumpled, skin and hair and eyes a bit droopy, and I find myself wishing I'd woken early enough to see her waking. Rumpled looks incredible on her and I crawl my way up to sit next to her.

My chest swells with warmth when she leans into me, rested her heated cheek against my shoulder. I can't see her face, but she's tucked up next to me so tightly I can feel her breathing. It feels good, cozy, and I can't stop the swirl of emotion stirring in me. I'd never really considered that this might be the result of my attraction, never imagined anything but the sensation of her against me. But this, with her snuggling against me and her face hidden behind a curtain of her hair, has me thinking of more. Of this, again and again. And dates and kissing and questions and stories.

Turning towards her, my words catch in my throat as I look down at her. Nestled just above and between her breasts, I can see the slightly dimpled skin of her scar. My mouth had been mere inches from it but yet, this is the first real glimpse of it. Not meaning to, my hand drifts towards her anyway, brushing across her stomach to her ribs, coming to rest along the thin ridge of tissue there. I can't see this one, but I can feel her tense as I make contact; she pulls back a bit and I quickly realize what I've done and drop my fingers down to her waist.

Something clutches tight inside my stomach when she doesn't relax. I still can't see her face, but her breathing has grown unsteady and hot against my shoulder. "I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's okay. Just…" she interrupts. "I'd just nearly forgotten it was there."

_So did I. _I'm tucked up against a real-life Superwoman, survivor of a bullet to the heart. My internship in the morgue had taught me just how close she had certainly been to death that day, even if no one ever truly let me in on the details. At the time, it had been terrifying. Now, with her alive and breathing and very much healed next to me, it's inspiring. I can feel her trembling slightly and want to tell her this but I can't find words that don't make me sound like school girl with a crush, so I swallow my words and just bring my fingers back up, playing across her scar.

She lets out a long sigh and I feel her tighten against me. I should stop, but I can't seem to make my fingers listen. It's stupid, I know, how I'm romanticizing this moment, this entire experience. She's never been one to let anyone in and I'm in, way in, and the feel of that rough skin under my fingertips is evidence. In the back of my mind, I know that this can't go anywhere, but for now, I give in to the illusion that we could hide this. Carry on. Make them all understand or run off together, damn the consequences. I'm floating on the possibilities as we linger in silence.

Her next move is sharp and sudden.

Pushing off the pillow, she launches herself up onto her knees, dragging me along with her. I'm not sure where we're going, but I follow. She glances back at me as we get off the bed, eyes flashing with something I can't quite read. It feels dangerous – more so than anything else we've done – because her grip on my wrist hurts.

When she drags me out into the hallway outside her bedroom, I balk, confused. We're both still bare and even though I know that she lives alone, the thought of being out in the big open living room like this feels like too much. But rather than explain, she jerks me roughly against the wall, pinning me by my shoulders. She looks fierce with this teasing grin on her face and I just wish she would say something. My heart is leaping up into my throat and I just don't understand.

She smudges her lips against mine and I just melt. The drag of her mouth peels back something and I strain against her hands, urging my lips back into hers until she lets me taste her with my tongue. "Kate," I groan into the kiss, my heart pounding as her fingers curl, digging into my skin roughly.

I manage to get my hands on her waist, skimming along the bare skin when suddenly she's ripping her lips back from mine, ragged gasps masking a low curse. Ducking, she lets her breath warm my shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. "Stop," she huffs.

I try to clutch her tighter, urge her on, but she drops one hand just long enough to push my hands down, then slams me back hard, holding her body back from my own. She doesn't speak, but the message is clear and I let my hands drop down to my sides. Her eyes are alive with flashes of green, vaulting themselves across my features as she seems to search for the ability to form sentences.

"This is so messed up," she hisses. Her eyes fall shut and she lets her head fall back without giving me an inch to move. "How…" The rest is caught up in a heavy sigh and then she just falls silent, her chest rising and falling heavily against me.

After a moment, she shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh and I can feel an apology trying to form on my lips even if I have no idea what's going on here. I manage to bite back the words, but find myself squirming. The move seems to startle her and she shift quickly, pressing her hips into mine to intensify her hold on me.

At this point, I'm just shaking and waiting while she drags in breath after breath with her fingers dug into my bare shoulders. Truthfully, while there is definitely something really good about just how strong and powerful she feels like this, I am definitely slightly terrified because reality is crashing back in fast and my hangover is pretty much gone, leaving just the truth to burn into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I stammer out for lack of anything else to say because she's still not speaking. Still hasn't even opened her eyes.

But at my words, she lets out a huff of a laugh, her head dropping between her arms. "It's not your fault. No one's really. If anything, it's mine for being so goddamn stupid."

Slowly she lifts her eyes to my face. My pulse flutters but then she's releasing my shoulders, backing up. There's all this space between us before I can react and she's about to turn away when I stop her. Blindly, I reach out and take hold of her wrist.

I have no idea what I'm going to say or do, but she stops, even if she doesn't turn back. Just waits.

I'm not even sure what part she's exactly talking about because there are a lot of reasons why this is messed up and it's not like I can explain them away. We got caught up in the moment, didn't think through the consequences, went with our guts (or rather our libidos), let the alcohol blot out our better judgments, and just generally declared damn the consequences. I didn't have an undo button or even any sort of comfort for the tense woman who was so passively remaining in my grasp.

So I let her go. Watch her retreat back to her bedroom and try not to watch as she tugs on clothes, unable to push myself off the place where she'd planted me against the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is sort of a mini-update. There's another chapter coming, hopefully soonish (no promises though), but this scene needed to separated, so it's not quite as long as the rest. **

* * *

I never did get breakfast – or lunch for that matter.

Instead, she called me a cab and on the way down to the street, I blurted out something stupid about never mentioning this again. If she was surprised, she didn't show it, just smiled sadly and nodded her agreement. By the time I got back to the loft, a knot had formed in my stomach that was wound so tight that it persisted to this day. When my friends arrived to take me out on Saturday, I'd nearly called the whole thing off – would have if dad hadn't cajoled me until I relented.

It's been over a month now. There's been no conversation, no phone call, not even a single sighting of Kate Beckett. Those weeks were restless. My emotions and even my body still seemed tangled up in her. When I'd arrived home and removed my clothes, I'd spent nearly an hour in front of the mirror tracing each place where my skin still glow pink from her touch. Sleep was perhaps worse because no matter where my dreams began, every path and scenario always seemed to lead back to her dark eyes.

There was also an awkwardness in the air that was entirely one sided. While my dad remained oblivious, not a day went by that I didn't have to deal with the lingering shame and weirdness that is associating your father's words with something sexual. He'd come in bubbling with excitement and ready to recap his adventures, which featured her name in every other sentence. At first, each mention of "Beckett" sent a shiver straight up my spine that left my stomach churning. But eventually I simply grew weary because these mentions were inescapable. It was impossible to put it behind me when the fantastical image of _her_ loomed over each and every family dinner, glorified by my father's endless imagination and fascination.

No matter what had transpired between them in the past, she remained, as always, his muse.

To him, she was as endlessly beautiful as Helen and as powerful and deadly as a comic book heroine. It was a constant trigger – the way he poetically played back her prowess with enough dramatic detail that I was helpless to avoid the way my mind would mix them with my own memories of her bare skin until it had become something bordering on pornographic.

Perhaps this should have destroyed it for me – Ruined the idea of her forever to hear action/adventure erotica spilling from my father's lips over the family dinner table. But no. I still dreamed of her – his words only gave her things like swords and shining armor and a gun that seemed impossibly big for her delicate hands.

So I'd invited some friends out to the Hamptons, fully intending on pushing Kate Beckett out of my head. But getting away only helped until it didn't. The taste of the whiskey we bought brought it all flashing back and by Sunday morning, I knew that I needed to face her if I was ever going to take back control of my own thoughts.

I had this detailed plan in my mind as I unlocked the door to the loft. And now they're scattering in the wind because she's sitting on the couch with my dad, scolding him about making a mess. Her hair is loosely curled and free, swinging dangerously in the dim light. She's still dressed from work with an extra button open – taunting my resolve silently.

She stops mid-sentence, catching sight of me before he can stop laughing. Frozen, she stares at me until my dad turns to see what she's looking at and spies me. In a moment he's leaping up, arms outstretched for a hug. "Alexis!"

He's all grins as he pulls me into that hug, tugging my feet up off the floor with his grip as if I really were still the little girl, and fully unaware that behind him, Kate Beckett is crumbling. She's flushed and ducking her head and scrambling to gather every scrap of paper into the shoulder bag she's now got in her lap. I can hear the paper fluttering as her fingers shake unsteadily in her haste.

"You're back early – Beckett and I were just going over some notes for a trial next week. We've got Chinese if you're hungry," he declares, already making a beeline for the kitchen and pulling out a plate before I can answer. Kate's still gathering and avoiding my eyes and I know that my plan, however desperate, has to wait. _If she's this freaked, it might even need to be reformulated._

"I actually stopped on the way in, Dad. I'm just gonna go clean up and crash. I think I spent a little too much time out in the sun," I explain, touching my too-hot pink cheeks, using my embarrassment as cover.

My dad's face falls but the anxiety is rolling off Kate in waves as she zips her bag shut and pushes up from the couch. I hate disappointing him, but letting this situation drag on is only going to make this worse. Turning, I start to climb the stairs, trying my best to make this easier because it feels like a physical pain in my gut watching her look so caught – so desperate.

At the top of the stairs, I'm about to say something – I'm sorry or good night, I'm not sure – when Kate speaks up, already wandering towards the door. "I think it's bedtime for me too, Castle. I still need to shower and I have a meeting with the DA at seven."

"But I thought…" his voice trails off because she's already there, opening the door.

"See you tomorrow, Castle," she says, ending the conversation pointedly before stepping out and pulling the door shut in once quick move.

A second after I hear it snick shut, my words finally escape. "Kate! Wait up!"

Bounding back down the stairs, I follow her out, shutting the door in the face of my dad's growing curiosity. She hears me and spins around, smudging a hand against her lips. She's startled and I'm a little out of a breath and the combination only serves to draw out the awkward silence.

"I'm sorry." I blurt it out too fast and haven't got anything to follow it up with.

"For what?" she say, taking hold of the conversation I'd broken. She means to be gentle, I can tell by the soft husk of her voice and the way her eyes meet mine for the first time since I'd walked in the door. But it hurts. Part of me thinks, irrationally, that she _has to know_ what's been running through my mind for weeks. Wishful thinking or not, I cannot seem to get my explanation out past the lump in my throat.

I let my head drop, closing my eye to draw in a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm myself. This has to be fixed but first I need to speak if we're ever going to even get past this first awkward declaration. Her scent hits me suddenly – she's come closer – and it's followed by the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder, fingers squeezing before skittering down my arms to find my fingers.

A sigh splits my lips open and the words follow it out, stammered and broken as they may be. "For whatever I said – or did – that day. For whatever I did to ruin it. I can't… I can't stop thinking about it and I know I said we shouldn't talk about it but I need to and I'm sorry… Sorry that I can't handle this by myself. I'm just… sorry…" I'm out of breath and I look up to find those hazel eyes flashing towards the door behind me.

There are no tears, but it feels like I'm crying.

I'm nearly ready to beg her to say something, anything, when she suddenly moves her fingers up to my wrist and tugs me towards the end of the hall. Then she's pushing through the door to the stairwell, taking us to the rooftop and out into the mid-summer heat above New York City. It's sweltering. The city is a whole different color and smell from the last time we'd been up here; the sky glows a hot orange-pink behind her – the buildings melting into a dappling of purple shadows and glinting gold reflections – and it turns her hair into a rustling tangle of flames. She's a breathtaking sight.

I'm hoping for words and when the door slams shut behind us and she drops my hand from hers, I think _they're coming_. Her lips part and she wipes the sweat on her forehead before letting out this heavy sigh that sounds to me like _finally._

But instead, I'm met with her hands. Long, delicate fingers that tangle into the hair at my temples, blocking out everything but _her. _ Soft warm palms that cup against my cheeks. They cradle my face and align her eyes with mine until I'm looking at them from only a few inches away, so shadowed by the setting sun that I can see only the liquid glint of their surface and none of their usual fire and color.

Then she's tilting my chin up and pressing this soft little kiss against my lips that I'm not sure I want. My body responds to the contact regardless – suffusing with heat and tenuous ache – but I don't move my hands or my hips in the way that biology urges me to. I let her taste me, tugging me in with fingers raking back through my hair delicately, but the tender touch only further confuses the situation.

I think I still want words. Explanations. Apologies. Honesty.

I'm so busy trying to sort out the sensations and what not to do with my hands, that I don't notice until she pulls back that I'm gasping.

By then, it's all back. The arousal, the excitement, the thrill, even that little fangirling voice that insists on labeling ever single part of her with her full name. It drowns out the doubt so quickly that I forget about fixing this. _What's to fix?_ The only thing that pops out of my mouth is _more._

So stupid. But by the time I've got my lips on hers, I can only wonder if this is how drug addiction begins. Her hips buck against mine as I lick something spicy sweet from the corner of her mouth as she angles into me. Without my heels, she's taller and crushing her lips down _into me_. Just that thought – Kate Beckett bending me with her mouth – makes me moan roughly into her kiss.

That spicy-sweetness is back – even hotter on her tongue. It bites at my tongue as I sample it, memorizing the lines and ridges of lips and teeth.

I need to breath and find that I have to drag my lips aside in order to find space for air because she won't let me go. But then I'm at her jaw and that gets her gasping, tangling her fingers roughly against the back of my head. When suddenly those fingers are dragging my head back, tilting my chin up and forcefully making room for her at my throat, I feel like I'm floating – those questing lips nudging against my pulse until we both hear a break in the white noise of far off traffic.

It's a door in the stairwell.

We jolt apart so quickly I feel a few hairs tear out as she tries to extract her fingers. Our hands are fluttering as we both straighten out a few wrinkles and fluff and flatten our hair between nervous glances at the door. When she suddenly bends, I glance down and realize she's retrieving that shoulder bag that I hadn't even noticed that she'd dropped.

I hear footsteps just as she grasps my chin and drags her thumb across my lower lip.

"Lipstick," she mutters, then digs her hands deep into her pockets.

It's that moment when my dad appears, already talking before he even gets through the door. "Alexis! You've got to see this new – "

He stops short at the sight of Kate, glancing between us with this look that is somewhere between shock and suspicion. "I thought you left," he teases her.

Kate stumbles on her words, but somehow I manage to find mine, stepping towards him to put a hand on his shoulder. "I was just thanking her for taking me out for my birthday. Then we kinda got into some girl talk and we just sort of… wandered up here to finish out gossip."

Relief leaps from Kate's eyes as my dad grins broadly at this idea. "Anything I should know?" he goads, looking first to me, then to Kate.

She manages an eyeroll and a patronizing pat to his shoulder. "Trust me, Castle, you're better off not knowing. I don't think your ego would survive."

The tease enough to get him mock pouting and soon he's distract with puffing out his chest with bravado. Kate just laughs, giving him a light elbow to the ribs to deflate the childish move and he doubles over dramatically as he huffs out her name.

It's an easy exchange, normal for them, but I feel my stomach twinge at the sly look she's giving him. Before I know what I'm doing (much less why I'm doing it) I step between them to break their gazes as I reiterate my need to take a shower.

"Yeah, I need to get going too," Kate echoes, following a few steps behind.

As I step back into the loft, I hear her call me from the elevator. "Alexis?" I turn and see she's fussing with her curls as she waits. "Have a good night… we should do this again some time."

I nod just as the elevator arrives and my dad steps up beside me to wave her good bye.

Once the door closes behind her, I force myself to slow down, no matter how badly I want to just run. I feel like I'm on fire – burned by her and the lies that had just come out of my mouth. Taking the stairs at the closest thing to a normal pace that I can manage, I slip into my room, headed straight for the mirror. When I stare at my reflection, I find that I'm more than a little disappointed that her touch isn't still tattooed on my skin.

* * *

**Part of me very much would like to switch to Kate's POV on this story because I think that would "justify" Kate's actions a lot. So, if this thing keeps eating me, there may well be a 'Round 2' for that.**


	4. Chapter 4

**At this point, this story just keeps going. If I do end up switching to Kate's POV, I will end up posting it as a separate story (I pretty much had to create an outline of it to ensure I have Kate behaving properly at certain points.) I find writing dialogue difficult (give me angst and smut any day) so the amount required to play out this story is giving me fits. So I don't promise speed, but at this point, I have no intention of quitting until I reach the ending point I have in mind.**

* * *

When I get out of the shower, I check my phone and find a missed call from Detective Beckett. It's paired with a voice mail and I stare at the notification as I wrap my hair into the towel to gently pat and squeeze out the dampness as I contemplate the fact that it doesn't read _Kate._ Unease is creeping into my stomach because no matter what she said as she was leaving, it was said in front of my dad and that cast doubt on everything.

I'm not even sure what I hope that voicemail contains. Before cleaning up, I would have hoped for an invitation to talk, to see her, but my time alone (away from her) has me thinking more realistically. That moment of teasing on the roof with my dad was a harsh reminder of the past in a way that I hadn't allowed myself to consider for months. There had been a time when I'd thought them perfect for one another, comforted my dad when he pined for her; I'd even spent some time weighing the possibility that she might become my step-mother.

And then there is, of course, the reminder of Dad's heart. While he seemed to have reconciled himself to being just her friend and partner, I know he still harbors feelings for Kate. He may not even be fully aware of it, but I can see it in rare moments when he looks at her and thinks no one is watching. It's like we're back to that summer after she was shot – the sadness and longing is swallowing him up and he just looks broken because she's not _his_.

Since New Year's Eve, I'd been so swept up in my feelings (or really in my hormones) that all of that had faded away. But seeing their interaction had me questioning everything.

Dropping the towel into the hamper, I pulled out a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt, slipping into them before leaving behind my phone to wander back downstairs. At first, I only intend to see if he's still up, but the lights are still on and he's at the sink, setting plates into the dishwasher. My nerves knot up as I feel a strange impulse to tell him everything. It's how we do thing and holding all of this in makes everything feel so wrong and it's that feeling that draws me down the stairs towards him.

Before I can reconsider, I step into the kitchen and call out to him. "Hey, dad." To my surprise, just this manages to bring the threatening sting of tears to my eyes as he glances over his shoulder.

"Hey pumpkin, thought you were headed to bed," he replies, sounding a little sleepy or perhaps just lonely, but he smiles anyway. Dropping the last dish into the rack, he closes the door and reaches for a towel to dry off his hands before turning to face me fully. The moment he does, the easy grin on his face falls, his concern obvious and all over him. "What's wrong?"

I feel twelve years old because in an instant he's dropping the towel and dropping an arm over my shoulders because he's always my dad – ready to protect me before he even knows what's coming.

"I've just got a lot on my mind," I offer truthfully, hating how thick my voice sounds. I'm trying to regain my control with deep breaths, wishing that I could wipe the concern that's creasing his eyes off his face. But instead, he just wraps me into a full bodied hug, sweet and warm. Guilt be damned, I give in to it, the familiar embrace setting free the tears that are clinging to my lashes. Words are gurgling in the back of my throat and threatening to loosen because even that tiny truth felt like a windfall of relief and I can only imagine how _good_ it would feel to just tell him the whole story.

A sob hitches in the back of my throat as I imagine how that kind, affectionate face would change if I did reveal the truth and I feel him bend to press a kiss into the top of my hair that I don't deserve. He holds tighter, trying to soothe away the tension that I'm sure he can feel, unaware that it's only making it worse.

He pushes me back then, just enough to look at my face, to see the tears that are heating my face. "Did something happen at the beach? Are you okay? Did someone-?"

Panic is in control and winding out his words and I have to stop him, the horror in his eyes even more painful than the stomach ache I'm fighting. "No, _no._ Nothing like that, I promise," I swear, trying to force a calming tone to my voice when it wants to scream. "I'm just overwhelmed. Life can just be so complicated…"

It's not the whole truth, but again, it's enough to let a shuddered sight of relief escape as I lean back into him and feel my heart steadying.

"Is this about whatever you and Beckett were talking about?"

"Yeah, I…" I bury my face against his chest, searching for a lie approximate enough to steady him. "I know I normally come to you about stuff, but this was just…"

"Girl stuff?" he prompts when I falter, easing back a bit. Looking up, I can feel the earnestness that's glowing from his face. He's accepting this so easily and it hurts to know how much the truth would hurt him. Confuse him. She's older and she was his and I know exactly what is going on and even I can't seem to get a handle on it all. No, he would be crushed, maybe even destroyed if I let it all out right now. But it's all building too fast and when he wipes away my tears with the pad of his thumb it blurts out of me – too fast to even stumble. "I think I have a crush on her."

The words jumble into hushed vowels and soften consonants and I wonder if he even followed me because he's just staring, unblinking. His mouth opens a bit then closes and I push down the gaping fish joke I want to make because really, that's not going to help anything. "On… on Kate?"

His face twists then as his nose crinkles and he almost look like… he's holding back laughter. Maybe even relief. It's still not enough truth, because apparently he still doesn't get it. My turn to sigh.

I must nod, because he smiles, gently, stroking back a bit of hair behind my ear. He's thinking school girl crush, not infatuated lust because I'm still his little girl who can be healed with a little love and kisses. He can't (won't) picture me as a sexual being – I know because the feeling is mutual.

"She's an amazing woman and she cares about you. There's nothing wrong with having a crush on her," he starts gently, a half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth like he knows some secret that he's not sharing. "Don't tell anyone about this, but I _might_ have gone through a brief – and I mean very brief – man-crush on Esposito…" He brings his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture and he's all Dad in that moment. His eyes shine and he gently leads me over to couch as his words gush out softly.

He's not even asking questions and I have no idea why. I left out so much and usually he knows when I'm holding back. Perhaps more is just too beyond belief – even his over-active imagination. Briefly I wonder at the fact that there's not even a hint of concern that the object of my crush is a woman, but it falls away as he takes both of my (apparently) shaking hands in his.

"But she's your – " My voice breaks off because, seriously, where the hell am I going with that?

"She's my friend. And I'm fairly certain she considers you a friend in your own right. So it's not like you're some anonymous perv creeping around her windows. Did you try talking to her about your feelings?"

_No, Dad, I let her take me back to her place, had sex with her, and told her that we shouldn't talk about it._

I manage to hold that snarky comment back and just shake my head no in a lie as one of his hands lifts to stroke my back as he whispers, giving me flashbacks to childhood fevers and chicken pox and breakups and lying on this couch while he soothed me to sleep. I'm definitely in no position to tell him because even I'm forgetting that I'm an adult and I don't need this – to be soothed and babied like a little girl.

For a long time he waits. He's thinking as his fingers trail over my shoulder blades in long, slow strokes and I wish he'd speak because if I'm the first to speak, I have no idea what I'm going to come out with. At least if there are questions to guide me, I have a chance.

Finally, he must realize that I'm out of words when I sigh and drop my head down in defeat because he's the one who breaks the silence a moment later – "I think maybe you should spend some time with her," he begins, using one hand to lift my chin so that I have to look at him. He does this when he wants me to understand something but I can't read those bright blue eyes tonight. My thoughts are too scrambled and it must show because he rushes into the next part of his explanation. "You don't have to tell her anything. Just… invite her to hang out, get to know her a bit more. I'm sure she'd like that and you would have the opportunity to… work out what you're feeling. Make it less scary."

_Oh god._ I suck in a breath because part of me wants to laugh at him. He has no idea how that sounded when placed in the context of _I'm pretty sure I want to have a lot of sex with Kate Beckett and spend hours being kissed by that mouth._ If he did, this would sound like permission and my heart is fluttering as a result.

But he doesn't and he just wants us to be friends. Wants to ease the awkwardness. So I bury my face against his chest, hugging him with every ounce of apology and gratitude and love that I can muster because I feel so damn guilty. And more than a bit foolish for even letting this conversation get this far. He huffs at the abruptness of it, easing his arms up to return the embrace and I can feel him smiling against my shoulder.

I'm about to say something stupid when we both hear my phone ringing upstairs. He lets me go because I pull back on instinct to get up. But just as quickly I'm covering my face as I suddenly dawns on me just how red my face is because it feels like fire against my palms.

"You gonna get that?" He goads gently, his elbow tapping against my arm. "It might be Beckett." He's teasing a little and I want no part of it, so I swat his arm in retaliation.

"No, I'm sure it's just Paige calling to say she made it home. I made her promise to leave a message since I was going to bed, but I wanted to be sure that she got there safely," I reply, amazed at the seriousness in my own tone, perhaps because it was a complete truth, unlike so much of what had been coming out of my mouth tonight.

"Sometimes, I think you're just way too grown-up to be my kid. What twenty one year old _checks in?"_

"It's not my fault that you're such a juvenile delinquent that responsibility was my only option for rebellion," I taunt – a real smile lighting my face as I see his eyes widen in mock offense.

"What's wrong with a little fun?" he tosses back easily before shooting out a hand to tickle me. It's too quick and he gets me and before I know it, I'm doubled over with laughter, blindly reaching out for my revenge. When I finally manage to dig my fingers in just under his ribs, his laughter booms through the loft as we both refuse to quit until we're winded, giggling, and plastered back against the couch.

As it subsides, I feel him take my hand and give a little squeeze. "Just to be clear," he starts, pausing until I turn my head to look at him without sitting back up. "This is just between us – I won't breath a word of this to Beckett unless you ask me to. And if you need to talk again, even if you're back at school. I'm here for you, always."

I can feel how much he means it because my heart is swelling inside my chest, pushing against my still protesting lungs. It's shrinking all that lingering guilt down to size and I manage to smile back at him genuinely. "Thanks, dad…"

But a moment later, my eyes are drifting up to my room as my phone emits a short tone indicating the arrival of a voicemail. "Do you think it's too late to call her?"

He chuckles and shakes his head before ruffling my hair. "I doubt it. Go on," he offers encouragingly. He's giving me that look that just radiates affection and I can almost hear him telling me how adorable I am and I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes because the man is actually proud of the fact that I have a crush on Kate Beckett.

I get up; deliberately avoiding that look he's still holding that totally looks like he's going to crown me Vice President of the Kate Beckett fan club. "I'm going then. Good night, Dad," I call, trying to maintain a calm pace as I make my way up the stairs once more.

Once I'm in my room the small amount of certainty I'd gained fades because the truth is that I'm not just calling to confess a crush. She knows the truth and so do I so this conversation is just going to be so much more complicated because lying is just not a possibility – and I've been getting really damn good at lying. Picking up my phone, I touch the voicemail option and close my eyes as I press the phone up to my ear.

"Hey Lexis," the recording begins. She's dropping that first syllable again and triggering memories of her mouth too busy kissing or sucking to leave space for that letter. "You're probably already in bed, but I… I guess I just wanted to apologize for putting you in that position. And I think maybe we do need to talk."

She sounds nearly shy, which a few months ago would have seemed very unlike her, but now sounds like everything about that night. My hear hammers as the pause hangs – allowing the crackle of the phone shifting and the sound of traffic to filter through.

"We should have talked tonight, actually. So, if you're still up, or even if it's tomorrow when you get this, just give me a call. I'm free after my meeting tomorrow, so maybe we could get lunch somewhere." Again her voice fades and the white noise inside her cab is back, hanging for almost thirty seconds before her finale rushes out. "Hope you have a good night. Bye."

The call disconnects abruptly then and I realize that I'm swaying in place. Hanging up on the automated recording's attempt to get me to save or delete, I clutch the phone tight as I move around the room to turn off the lights. Only when the glow of the screen remains the only illumination and I'm certain I've closed the door completely do I collapse on the bed; Shoving the comforter down I then pull the light cotton sheet over myself, leaning back against my pillows. Biting both my lips, I scroll through my contacts to her name then wait as it rings four times before she picks up.

"Alexis?"

She sounds a bit startled, but I let out a huge breath when I hear her. I'm not alone with this anymore and I realize that this is what I'd been seeking downstairs more than anything. "Yeah, it's me. Hi, Kate." My voice is high and watery and I hate it, but I've got a lump in my throat that's distorting it, refusing to clear. "That sounds good."

"Huh?"

"Oh… lunch. Tomorrow." I blurt out, realizing that my brain is forgetting that it's probably been at least an hour since she left that message, not mere minutes, and she's probably not following me.

"Oh, okay," she answers. I can almost picture her head dropping as she pauses, then her voice hitches as she continues, "Look, I shouldn't have-"

"I wanted you to," I interrupt, stopping the apology that I know I don't want to hear. As confused as I feel, her regret is definitely not something I'm going to be able to deal with if the jerking tightness in my stomach is any indication. "You don't have to feel bad about that part. And I'm the one who said that we shouldn't talk about it. You were just trying to respect my wishes."

I hear her shifting and wonder if she's in bed too. It's a terrible idea because my mind is quickly painting mental pictures and demanding to know what she's wearing so it can fully draw out the details of her spread out on her sheets. I try to push it back, but my body is already warming – surging to life. When she still doesn't say anything, I feel my thoughts threatening to slip from my lips, so I force out something else, anything else.

"I talked to my dad – I didn't tell him, well, anything. But he knew something was up and I had to tell him something and I just blurted out that I have a crush on you." I'm met with yet more stunned silence and I just have to fill it, explain why I did this because it sounds monumentally stupid when actually committed to words. "He has no clue about what actually happened of course, but when I told him I'm pretty sure that he was proud of my taste."

That draws a wry laugh from her that hisses in the phone. "He would be…" she mutters, mostly to herself. She sighs, then adds more clearly, "For what it's worth, if he wasn't your dad and we weren't-" Her voice breaks harshly as she drags in air. She's got to be close enough to the phone that her lips are nearly touching it because every word sounds like her mouth against my ear and it's making my face too hot. "If it wasn't so complicated… this would be a much easier decision."

Her admission feels off, like she'd meant to say something else, but stopped herself and out of nowhere, my frustration is venting out of my mouth. "Do we even need to talk then? Isn't that the answer?" The bitterness in my voice sounds foreign and acrid on my tongue and I'm ready to back pedal right then and there because why then hell am I talking to Kate Beckett like this but she stops me and it all just melts.

"It's not. It's a factor, but there are other things… Things that should really be said in person." It's barely more than a hushed whisper but it works because the need her in voice is rippling through the darkness. It sounds naked and harsh and so much like that night that I have to force myself to press my palm down into the mattress because the temptation to trace every place where her hands had been is overwhelming. As my eyes slip shut to replay the memory, I can't stop myself; I can nearly taste her on my lips and I have no idea how long we both wait in silence before one of us finally speaks. She speaks first and I'm grateful because, even though I've got a million words surging through me, they're all nervous and heartfelt and laden with the lust that's coursing through me and I'm not entirely sure that it's a good idea to unfurl all of that when we're on opposite sides of the city and I can't see her face.

"So you're free tomorrow then? For lunch?"

"Yes, lunch is good," I croak back.

"I'll call you when I'm done then. I can swing by and pick you up…?"

"Yes… okay." I sound stupid and wooden, but it's the best I can manage.

"You okay?" Her question is quick and I wonder if she's been listening to the way I'm breathing too.

"Yeah… I just… I can't _stop it._" I don't mean to tell her that, but it comes out anyway. My muscles are tightening and there's this heavy, damp ache in my abdomen that I just want to press into, but I force myself to keep one hand on the phone and the other against the mattress. Just her voice should not be enough, but it is and I wonder how ridiculous I must sound to her. Silently, I hope that my meaning isn't nearly as obvious as it feels.

"Alexis…" It's too husky to be the effective warning that she means (or perhaps just wishes) it would be. Instead, it just sounds like want and makes everything worse because _of course_ she knows what I mean. She's known me for nearly seven years now and she's a god damn detective. _Of course she knows._

"It's okay," I manage to stammer out. "I'll see you tomorrow, Kate." I push the words out quickly, while I can, needing to end this before I say too much. Or do something that I can't come back from. The urgency of it is keeping my heart rate rising and I feel too hot against the sheets.

"Tomorrow," she echoes and I hear her emit a soft groan just before the connection ends. My heart pounds through the silence, pushing heat to every inch of my skin. I need a drink; my tongue feels dry and swollen, my throat rough as I try to swallow the sensation. Reaching over, I drop my phone onto the nightstand and try to ignore how empty the room feels in the dark silence.

My palm lifts from the bed, unclenching the bed sheets that I didn't know I'd gathered, then smooth the fabric against my torso. The tightening pull of it causes heat to flare up where the cotton catches against me – my nipples tightening painfully through the fabric. I can't stop myself from pressing my thighs together then to feel the heat swell between them. I let my fingers trail downwards, teasing along my stomach to imagine _her._

_Fuck. No._ I push my hand away because allowing this will only make tomorrow so much harder. I can just see it. I'll be so nervous, searching for words, and just blurt out _I had to touch myself after talking to you last night._ Worse still, I imagine those green-flecked hazel eyes just _knowing _without a word. She'll say something tempting and then I'll squirm and she'll know exactly how much she affects me.

If I'm going to survive this conversation without throwing myself at her, begging her, I need to get control of this.

The sound of footsteps outside my door tears me from my thoughts and I spring out of bed, shoving aside my sheets. I wouldn't put it past my dad to eavesdrop and my hearts rises to my throat this thought. Really, I should have thought of it sooner, but apparently Kate has a way of robbing me of my common sense, even when she's not close enough to touch. But as I push open the door, I instead find that it's Gram about to walk into her bedroom, tucking her keys into her small black clutch.

She's dressed in a flowing black silk jacket, her red hair confined beneath a silky silver kerchief.

"Oh, Alexis! Darling!" she exclaims, swirling to face me. "I just got in – rehearsals were just dreadful – I hope I didn't wake you with my groaning."

I only have time to shake my head before she's coming at me; all powder, soap and shimmering silk with her arms out before wrapping me into a hug. "Richard said something about girl troubles. Everything all right, dear?"

She pushes me back enough to cup my cheek and I smile at her scrutinizing frown. "Better now. Beckett was actually here earlier and gave me some really good advice."

Gram smiles wistfully and gives my cheek a pat. "That's good, darling. Your father seemed a bit amused by the whole thing and I was a bit concerned that he might have misread the situation," she explains with a wave of her hand. With that, she's pecking my cheek with a kiss and turning back towards her door. "See you at breakfast? I really think I could just collapse from exhaustion."

"Sounds good. Good night, Gram," I reply, smiling as she gives a little wave before opening her bedroom door.

"Good night." With one last smile, she disappears, leaving me alone in the hall.

The panic is slowly fading as I return to bed, dragging the sheets back over myself. In the silence, I can hear whispers of movement as Gram prepares for bed and force myself to follow them as I close my eyes, hoping the familiar sounds will drown out the emotions that I know will still dominate my dreams.

It's nearly eleven when she sends a text to say she's on her way and I reply as quickly as my fingers allow – asking her to meet me at the coffee shop three blocks up where Dad never goes.

When I got up, I chose to skip family breakfast, waiting for the sound of Gram's departure before sneaking down to snag coffee and some yogurt before Dad emerged from the shower. The rest of the morning was spent trying to fight back the shaking panic that kept rising each time I thought her name. I worked out my nerves through clothes – trying on and discarding outfits and brushing my hair until my scalp was beginning to feel a bit sore. What I settle on is a pair of light weight slacks and pale blue sleeveless blouse that I hope passes as casual, but not so much that I will inadequate if she's still dressed from her meeting with the District Attorney.

Gratefully, Dad seems to be sequestered in his office when I slip down the stairs before heading for the coffee shop. I'm certain that if someone had been there to ask, I would have eagerly declared _I'm having lunch with Kate._

That fan-club look Dad had given me the day before seems to have killed the obsessive need to recite her full name with gushing admiration. Now, walking down to meet her, she's just Kate. Even if it is still swoony and laced with a sigh each time my mind reads off the syllable. I feel a bit giddy, waiting at the curb, whispering her name to myself; as if, with enough repetition, I might make it okay that I'm this worked up over her.

At least the state of euphoria seems to have calmed my nerves. When she pulls up to the curb in her Crown Vic, I'm mid-word and freeze immediately when I spot her smiling over the dash at me. Her window is already down when she stops the car and leans over to wave me in.

"Hop in."

This is totally part of the plan of course, but it feels like it's the look in her eyes that actually pulls me into the passenger seat. "Hey," I greet her, unable to tone down the cheesy grin I'm wearing.

"You ready?" she asks, already eyeing traffic for a chance to pull out. She definitely didn't take time to change – the pressed navy pants she's wearing match her jacket nicely, the fit trim but lending a bit of weight to her arms and shoulders that makes her seem even more impressive than usual.

"Mhm." Then we're swinging out into traffic, weaving across the lane to make the first left as I ask, "Where are we going?"

She nips at her lower lip for a moment then glances my way as she slows for a red light. I'm completely distracted by her hair – glowing and golden in the bright summer sunlight in a way that I've rarely seen her. Most of our visits over the years have been dinners and late night parties or clouded by the dim, filtered fluorescent of the precinct. None of those really did her justice and I almost don't hear her when she replies. "I was actually thinking this might be easier somewhere private – my place – unless you'd rather go out somewhere."

But I catch that last bit. Even the mention of _her place_ has my chest tightening. She waits for an answer patiently as I try to steady the way my hands are starting to tremble. I wring them in my lap, staring down at them trying to find some sort of reply.

"No, you're probably right. Your place is fine," I agree, surprised that I actually sound calm, assured and nothing like the immature idiot in my head that's still thinking about touching the soft waves of her hair.

"Was everything okay last night? With your Dad, I mean," she prompts and I try not to think about just how awkward this sounds. She's not looking my way anymore, purposefully facing the road and I'm watching her wring her fingers against the steering wheel.

"I – I think so. Honestly, I think he thinks I just meant a school girl kind of crush. No matter how old I get, he always thinks the best of me – in that naïve, twelve year old kind of a way. You know?"

She nods slowly, licking her lips, and holding back her answer for a moment as she merges across a few lanes. "I suppose that's a good thing. He trusts you."

"Maybe…" I start, swallowing the strange feeling rising in my throat as I see her shift in her seat, anxiously pushing her body further upright. This really isn't what I wanted to do, especially not when she can't even look at me and I can only see her in profile so I'm just not quite sure what she's thinking. "How did your meeting go?" I ask, needing to put off the awkwardness.

"About as I suspected – very repetitious. We spent most of the time just reviewing my notes and my testimony," she replies and eases back into her seat slightly.

We both went quiet after that as traffic grew heavier. Trying not to stare at her, I force myself to watch the street ahead but she keeps slipping in and out of my peripheral vision, drawing my attention back. She keeps reaching for the dash – fidgeting with the air conditioning controls, so when at a red light, she suddenly unsnaps her seat belt and wriggles out of her jacket, I'm not entirely surprised.

She tosses the jacket into the back seat, throwing me a brief, sidelong glance before resettling her hands on the steering wheel. "You know," she says casually. "I'm almost fifteen years older than you."

The air in my throat catches, though I'm not sure whether it's because her emerald-green blouse is sleeveless and I'm now looking at so much of her skin or if it's because she's trying to start this conversation of why we can't do this again. So I just nod.

"Does that… bother you? I mean, it doesn't feel like that much to me." My stupid voice squeaks with uncertainty and I deliberately avoid looking at her, almost missing the brief shake of her head because I'm too tempted to run my fingers over her toned shoulder.

"Not really," she confirms a moment later as she slides her car into a spot a block down from her building. Once we're out of the car, she moves to walk beside me – taking my hand loosely – as though she were giving me permission to break away if I wanted.

Today, she's the one leading me in, a step or two ahead the whole time.

Instead of heading for the flight of stairs we'd taken that night, she tugs me to the left and we end up at an elevator. She pushes the button and tightens her grip on my hand, tugging me more tightly against her until my shoulder is touching hers. Those fingers keep readjusting around my palm, nervously playing at the bones of my hand and I look over and realize she's got to be just as uncertain about this talk as I am because she's tugging at her lower lip with her teeth so hard I'm surprised that she hasn't broken the skin.

She feels me observing her and lifts her gaze to my face for a moment before turning back to the elevator as the doors slide open then leads us inside.

It's not until we're inside the elevator that I regain some sort of control over my body and give in to the urge to touch her. Our hands are still clasped, but I bring my other one up to trail my fingers across the soft skin of cheekbone, pushing back her hair as I watch how uncertainty morphs the shape of her eyes. I'm holding my breath because I'm not entirely sure I have permission for this.

Apparently so, because she tilts her head into my touch, her eyes slipping almost shut. Her lips remain pulled – a tight thin line of tension – and she indulges only for a few moments before straightening, stepping back to lean a shoulder to the wall as she drops my hand.

"I think…" I sputter out but the ding of the elevator interrupts me as we jar to a halt and the door opens on her hallway.

Kate pushes off the wall and walks away before I can continue and I feel stuck. I stare after her, the doors beginning to close when she turns and calls back to me, "You comin, Lexis?" Smiling encouragingly, she waits for me to step out into the hall before heading for her door, quickly unlocking the deadbolt and pushing inside.

As I follow her in, I watch her remove her gun, her badge, and then her wallet, depositing them on the kitchen counter.

I should ask about lunch but for some reason, she's unbuttoning her blouse, tugging it loose from her slacks then slipping it off, revealing a fitted camisole with a heavy sigh. Before I can start that _what's for lunch_ talk, I've crossed the small space between us and I'm snagging her blouse from her fingers to drape it over the back of the high-backed chair with a quick caress of the soft, silky fabric. It gets her attention immediately, turning her into me as my fingers skim up her bare arm unwittingly.

Her eyes flick to mine, questioningly. My lips are stuck, so I try to apologize for my lack of impulse control with my eyes – and maybe it works because she shivers under my touch, ducking her head slightly as a slides her tongue across her lips. Drawing in a breath, she steps into the touch and brings her hand to my waist. "You know, you really don't play fair."

It sounds like a complaint – she even tightens her brow to emphasize her annoyance – but those fingers at my waist are tickling along the hem of slacks, toying with my blouse until it teases loose. When the tips of her fingers graze my bare skin, I watch a slow smile spreading across her lips before they blur out of focus as she leans in and presses a kiss to my lips. Even once the kiss begins, her lips remain passive, pressing warm gusts of breath across my skin as I wait. She's trembling and still not moving, just gasping in short little breaths when I ask, "I thought we were going to talk?"

Those fingers at my waist curl, pressing blunt fingernails into my skin before skimming upward, creating an awkward, heated tingling that races up my back immediately. I force the kiss then, shifting until our noses bump and I find a way to angle my lips against hers that allows enough pressure to slip my tongue against her mouth. With that, she sighs and uses her fingers to hold me against her, sucking lightly against my mouth for a brief moment before pushing herself away.

It takes a few short gasps before she lets me go fully, turning away and raking her hair back from her face before she manages to speak. "Yes, we need to talk. I… let's order food."

For me, it still feels like she's still kissing me and I just nod in agreement because the words don't seem to make sense at first. I watch, confused as she spins away, pulling her cell phone from her back pocket before disappearing into her bedroom.

* * *

**Again, cutting the scene here seemed like the appropriate transition point. I haven't let myself invest in a multi-chapter fic like this in quite a while and it's very strange to figure out where the breaking points should be.**

**Also, thank you to those of you who have reviewed/followed/favorited this story. Mostly I'm content to just put stuff out there and let it be, but this one has taken over my brain in spite of being tricky to write. Given that there isn't much fic out there featuring Alexis, much less of this pairing, I felt a bit... lost for a frame of reference on how other people see them. It's very reaffirming to know that at least a few of you don't think I've completely lost my mind on this one.**


	5. Chapter 5

**And so the story goes on. I'm already working on Chapter 6 and 7... but it's definitely getting to the tricky part. And I've never been so great at dialogue (give me smut any day) so hopefully all the talking doesn't kill it.**

**And more than likely if I go ahead with Kate's POV, it will be as a separate story. Something about many years as an English major makes switching POV mid-story just... something I can't do.  
**

* * *

As I wait for Kate to return, I just keep hoping that this could all just go away. I'm really not this girl. I have self-control and self-respect and I think things through before doing them – usually over-think them to death. But no amount of over-thinking seems to be able to suppress my reaction to her. Hormones were one thing, this was another thing entirely. Yesterday proved that. Hormones alone did not get me to make with Kate (or anyone for that matter) on the roof with my dad downstairs and curious. With her in another room, I know full well how much chaos this could create – whether through lies or the truth, both ways equally disastrous.

I hate lies, even little white ones and maybe it's because I've always been such a bad liar but these last twenty four hours have shown me that I'm capable. It's disquieting to realize and I have to move as the dread in my stomach tightens. I have no idea what I'm going to say when she gets back because "I really like you" sounds juvenile and everything else just seems too heavy and sentimental. I'm not confident enough for love and sadly the English language offers no real in between option that doesn't lump in one of those original "L" words.

I can only hope that the words will come as I explore her apartment, starting with her collection of books. Dad's books occupy an entire shelf of their own and I skip past them quickly. The rest of her collection can only be described as eclectic – literary fiction spattered with crime novels, books on architectural history and photography littered in amongst an array of travel books. There are two shelves devoted to law, police procedures, and criminology – some textbooks mixed with more mainstream titles. The entire library is dusty and I can't help but wonder what made her stop reading them; each one so obviously worn and read until they bore crease marks along every spine.

When my thoughts drift back to my dad and his books, I have to move on.

In her kitchen, everything is tucked away behind cabinet doors. The only evidence that it is lived in is the coffee pot, still streaked with a bit dried coffee from its last use. When I open a cupboard to find a glass (because water might loosen the hold that nerves have tied around my vocal chords), I feel a bit like an intruder as Kate's voice filters out of her bedroom. It freezes me in place and I hold my breath, making out just enough to know that she's just ordering lunch.

I pour myself a glass of water at the tap, waiting as I hear her end her call and begin shuffling around her room. Ideas of what to say are just beginning to take hold when she emerges – looking much more like the Kate I've known for years, dressed now in fitted jeans and collared sage green blouse. The words are gone again and I gulp down the rest of them with my water.

Her head stays bent down, eyes on her phone as she informs me that she ordered Chinese; hopes that's okay. It's fine with me and I tell her as much then add, "I'm not so hungry though."

Kate gives a little nod, a touch of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her hair's been set loose, waving across her shoulders with her movement. Setting her phone on the kitchen counter, she sighs, looking fully at me for the first time.

"I don't know where to start," she admits, hopping up onto a stool at her kitchen counter, swinging around to angle herself towards me. From the other side of the counter, I shift back, setting down my glass on the counter so that I can use two hands to hold me up because between _I want you_ and _I have no idea what I'm doing_, my knees are a bit too shaky and even though her eyes have dropped once more, I can feel how much I'm the center of her attention at this moment.

"Me either," I admit quietly, not really able to come up with anything better.

"You know, I haven't… been with anyone for two years." She looks as surprised to be admitting this as I am to hear it. I swallow hard, realizing immediately the implication of her words. There are other implications there, but I don't dare think them because even the awareness of them makes a lump rise in my throat.

"Was that a choice?" It's a dumb question, but it's what I've got and it comes out easily.

However, it seems to confuse her – her nose crinkling as she cocks her head to the side, considering for a long moment before answering. "It was at first, but then it just became… habit. The opportunity never came up."

I hate that her voice waivers through the end of her statement and she's pinching her fingers together where they rest on the counter. When I speak, I don't recognize the thought that comes out, but I know that it's that shaky sense of unease that inspires it. "Maybe I was right before. I go back to school soon – we can manage to avoid being alone and then maybe this will just fade away. We don't have to…"

Her head pops up immediately, so much confusion and shock on her face that I can't read her reaction. I stop talking, the words petering to nothing more than a few sputtered, incoherent syllables.

"Then what?" she bites out, tension drawing her tight and upright in her seat, her fists jamming down into the counter. "Your dad… we're still friends. He's one of my _best_ friends. You'll come home eventually – Christmas, holidays, Thanksgiving, birthdays, the odd weekend here and there and I just can't disappear. He'd never understand and I – maybe we're not together like that but he's become family. It's taken so long for me to understand that. To accept it. It's not something I can just walk away from."

She only stops then because her frustration breaks her voice and floods tears into her eyes, though she holds them at bay. Her words feel like fury but stagger out like half held back sorrow. It's not until I can taste the salt on my lips that I realize she's brought me to tears too.

"Do you remember the day he dropped you off at Columbia that first year?" She waits for my nod, gulping back something before continuing. "He called me that night. Not because I was his girlfriend. That call would have come regardless of the status of our…" Glancing up guiltily, she watches me wiping tears from my cheekbones, trying to hold myself together because I hate the heated flush this is bringing to my face. "He called just to talk about you. Told me stories. Admitted that he was so grateful to Martha because she promised him that night to never leave him alone."

I can't help but laugh at that. "He did not."

"He did. Swore me to secrecy of course. Tried to make me pinky swear until I pointed out that we couldn't lock fingers over the phone."

She's smiling a bit now through the tears as she sniffles, trying to collect up her emotions. Then she pushes her elbows onto the counter, cupping her hands to her face to use the heels of her palms to prop up her chin. "But my point was that I realize that night what over a year of therapy couldn't teach me. I'd been adopted. Maybe I wasn't there for all of those memories he'd shared, but I was for some of them. And I was there for this because I was part of this. In spite of the chaos and danger and hurt that I'd created in your family, you had all just… forgiven me. Loved me anyway. It healed things inside of me that hadn't been right for the better part of a decade."

She paused then, raking back her hair to look at me directly. Her eyes are too dry now, red-rimmed, and puffy, but sparkling in their seriousness when she continues. "And because of that I _need _to resolve this. I am really good at hiding things. Too good. I spent years trying to hide. Refused to be part of anything as serious and important as family. So I know damn well what that does to a person. What it did to me. And I cannot let this… whatever it is, do that to you."

It's so stupid, but I launch myself around the counter then, throwing both my arms around her neck with enough force to nearly drag her off the stool. Too many emotions are blooming in my chest to even breathe and I press my face to her shoulder. I'm too close, too tight against her and I can't let go. When she hugs me back, it's careful, gentle. I'm probably scaring her, gripping her so hard and gasping sobs against her neck.

I want to back off – really I do because I'm leaving a tear stain on her shirt, but I just can't. And when the buzzer sounds announcing the arrival of our food, she has to physically uncurl my limbs, silently slipping away to the door.

She brings in the bags of food, arranging paper cartons on her coffee table without a word, waiting for me to pull myself together. I'm trying but I'm such a mess – sniffling and willing my legs to move from this spot – but I just can't. I'm certain my knees will give out and I'll feel even more ridiculous because really, I'm way over reacting. Desperately I wish I could explain to her that this is just who I am, that I'd never learned how to hold back this sort of stuff so when it wells up, it just comes spilling out like a volcano of emotional, needy mess.

Once she's set everything out, unwrapped straws and napkins and plastic utensils, she comes for me. She hooks my fingers with hers, leading me on her tether to her couch. I manage to shuffle along behind her, settling gratefully in the couch, blinking back tears and dragging in air in attempt to stop up the leak.

After a moment, she tugs a shirtsleeve down over her hand, using the cuff to wipe away my tears, then smoothes back my hair next, soothing soft fingers along the ridge of my ears until I'm warm and tingling with a temporarily forgotten awareness.

Only when I meet her eyes with gratitude does she still. She's glowing with some sort of emotion I can't place, with this shyness that makes me blush. I shouldn't but I kiss that face, a soft touch against those smiling lips with only the intent of _thank you._

I pull back, before she can move, leaving her lips nearly parted, burst open in what could be anything and it takes a moment to remember the taste at hand. With a slow blink, she turns to the paper cartons with obvious reluctance, her fingers skimming down my arms to settle in her lap.

We talk about the take out then, eating straight from the cartons, pretending it's as simple as small talk over spicy pork. I don't remember what I tell her as feast because I'm trying to figure out how to go on from here. Eventually we'll be stuff, full of heavy, warm, greasy meat padded with rice and we'll have to do more than just clean up the literal mess. She knows it too and the façade nearly topples when she passes me a carton of rice with an express that makes this feel like the last mean on death row.

I'm saying something about this terrible buffet my dad always went to when we drove out to the Hampton's and I just choke on my words when her eyes meet mine. My story just stops and "Fuck" tumbles out like a regularly part of my vocabulary.

Immediately she blinks and the look is gone, her other hand coming up to steady the paper carton that I'm nearly crushing. A few more breaths and I manage to take control, setting the rice in front of me and looking away from her to shovel the contents into my pork.

When I dare look back, she's tucked her legs up on the couch, reclining into the arm so her food is cradled between her chest and her knees. "They seriously used chicken nuggets in General Tso's sauce and Castle actually goes there?"

It's forced and fake and so wrong but I laugh, nodding. "Every single time." She laughs too and it all just… passes.

We eat until we've bottomed out our cartons and my stomach strains in protest. I should have stopped halfway through, but nerves and procrastination kept me eating and I glance over to find Kate staring bewildered into her own empty carton.

"So…" I start, more out of nerves than anything.

"So…" she echoes back, her bent knees still between us.

"How do we… resolve this?"

Her eyes close as she sighs. I know she's not used to this, directly confronting the topic but I have no other way to deal with it so I have to go with it.

"We do it… or we don't," she states simply, punctuating her words with a nervous tug at her lip. "I don't think halfway works in this context."

"Yeah. I don't think so either, but… how is _don't_ different from… ignoring it and avoiding each other."

I set my carton on the table, my fingers shaking at bit as she sweeps her eyes around the room, wetting her lips with the slide of her lip. The crush of fear and the urge to run from this is playing tug of war inside me with the heated urge to _do something _ to her. Indirect and vague as it is, the impulse is strong, flitting its attention from her lips to her tongue to her toned calves then back up with her fingers dragging into her soft curls.

"I guess," she begins, dropping her hands to her sides. "Don't is having this talk. Probably owning up to… some amount of the truth to your dad. Choosing not to pursue this. Allowing for the possibility that we may need to have another talk."

Everything about that option hurts. I press my lips together tightly, trying to control the slight tremor running through me because I know it's the truth. It's a real answer to this and not the half imagined fantasies that I'd entertained when lying in her bed. All those times that adults had tried to explain relationships by saying "it's complicated" make so much sense at this moment because I know that's the only option that allows us a real shot at going back to the way things were; to erasing all this stress and confusion that's held me captive ever since I left her that morning.

But it feels wrong and I soon find myself asking with a look at her downturned eyes, "And doing it…?"

"Requires coming clean with your dad and… choosing to see if this is going anywhere. But realizing the consequences this time."

She lifts her head to watch me then, eyes large and round and focused directly on my face and I wonder if she knows what I'm feeling because _what do I know._ I certainly have no idea what to do.

"Either way, we tell him," I point out, my voice dull and unable to even reflect the anxiety even the thought of this brings.

"I… I don't see any other way." Apologetically, she drops her knees and leans forward, shifting to sit close enough to take my hand. "You don't have to tell—"

"No, I do," I interrupt because there's no way I'm going to leave her to do this alone. Maybe I'm not the kind of girl who gets into these kinds of messes, but I'm definitely not the little girl who was taken advantage of, and Kate is no predator who need to face up to her crimes.

"But it's going to be me he's angry at. You're his kid. When he takes sides, he'll take yours," Kate offers softly, her hand squeezing my fingers gently.

"We don't let him take sides. We go in together, explain together, face him together. Make him see that this was entirely mutual," I declare, with far more certainty and authority than I deserve. Truthfully, I even doubt her assertion that he'll be on my side. She's Kate – the one that got away, his muse. Lovers or not, his days rise and fall with her, even if she seems to be blind to this particular bit of reality.

"But if he blames me, you won't have to lose him."

"I think it's too late at this point to mitigate that risk. At this point, it's about making him understand and helping him recognize this for what it is."

She slumps and I wait for the obvious question to come but it doesn't, which is good since I have no idea what this is either and that might just be the worst part about telling him. While I can replay the related events in chronological orders and explain what was happening in the moment, I don't have a word or even a phrase to describe what this is because I can't sort out what I want from what I fear and what I need.

Her eyes fall shut as she tucks her chin to her chest. "God, what a mess," she mutters softly, her hand still clinging tightly to mine.

Neither of us speaks for what feels like forever and I have to look away. It is a mess and nothing we do is going to fix it and seeing her head hanging, looking so much like defeat, is too much. I'm staring down at my lap, fingering the seam along the outside my thigh when she shifts, her weight rocking the cushions beneath us. Stubbornly, I refuse to watch as she unfolds herself from the couch and gets to her feet, letting my hand drop limply on the couch. But when she moves, shuffling quietly to stand in front of me, I have to see what she's doing and look up to find her watching me.

I think I say her name, questioning her proximity and the softness in her eyes as she leans in, but it's forgotten when her hand slips across my cheek, slowly drawing me forward until those soft lips press carefully against my forehead. Heat rushes to my cheeks – tingling in its urgency to announce my response to her touch. My eyes fall shut as her mouth brushes down, leaving warm breaths against my cheek, then my jaw, before settling for tickling against my ear. I've got no idea what she's thinking, but it feels good and so much easier than talking that I don't even consider anything but letting her.

"I should stop," she murmurs as I lift one hand to slide under her hair behind her neck. But she doesn't and even as I nod my agreement I tilt my chin to the side as her hand sweeps down to my shoulder, pushing aside hair and fabric to find skin. I'm tingling, fighting the urge to squirm because her touch is almost too light, almost enough to tickle me into a fit of giggles.

As her mouth opens, lips nudging along my jaw, I hear myself ask, "We didn't decide." But I don't really care. My mind is pretty much flooded with hormones and excitement and the feeling of her – any ability to think erased.

She covers my mouth then and I can almost hear her muttering _shut up, I'm busy_. It's seriously effective because she stops anything else the rational part of my brain might say with a slant of her lips and tongue. Words die out to a groan as she settles her free hand against my knees for balance.

Her mouth angles down against mine, pressing until I can feel the hardness of her teeth cushioned behind her lips and I open my mouth to let out the breath I've been holding. The fingers on my knee tighten, refusing to let go as they drag upwards. It's hard – I can hear my brain clamoring for air and space so that it can think about this some more but my instincts arch me up from the couch, countering the press of her lips with my own eager tug.

Then she slips – a low gasp pulling her lips down under my tipping chin and my lips are free to send words tumbling out. "I want to try…"

The sound of stills me because I'm not even sure that's the right choice because I still don't have enough air between us to think about this rationally because my hand is still clinging to her neck, guiding the wet, heated trail of her mouth to my collarbone. It feels indulgent when she's moves, emboldened to scrap the skin there with the edge of her teeth.

"Me too," she echoes back under a gasp, her hands sweeping behind me, dragging me up from the couch while roving beneath my shirt to find my bare back. I'm too busy trying to catch up to my choice to slow the progression we're making towards her bedroom.

It's brighter, clearer this time – the afternoon glinting off glass and metal – and without alcohol it feels much more monumental to be here, in her space.

She's less hurried, lingering in the doorway to press gentle kisses to my face and throat, her fingers clutching roughly to the back of my shirt and I wonder if it's because I'm not terrified. She feels good, right, and it almost hurts to press my hands into her back to pull her close, pushing her mouth against my cheek.

But as different as this feels, I know there's still too much left unsaid. _What if this is just about sex?_

The question is callous, but echoes anyway, rudely tainting the brush of her hand along my side. It feels like more but her eyes are slammed shut and she hasn't uttered a word to definitively refute that statement. What if I am just a glorified groupie, with just the right blend of affection and interest and admiration to suit her need to end her two year isolation?

She disengages then, as if she can taste the bitterness of my thoughts through my skin, her hands floating up to cradle my face, confusion dragging her eyes over me. Her breath tastes sticky, slightly tangy and sweet from her food as she hovers there in my gaze. It's not until her fingers slip heavily downward, nearly dropping from my face that I realize that I really need to say something or else I'm seriously going to screw this up even more than I already have.

"I can't… do this if it's just about sex." Yeah, I sound meek and needy and completely insecure, but just letting the words out calms the shaky feeling that's ruining this.

Her brow tightens at my rushed words, narrowing her eyes as her fingers push back up, fully framing my face to steady me so that she can search my expression once more. I can see answers flitting across her eyes, considered then rejected over and over again, but I can't read a single one and I'm about to step back when she finally finds one that she can speak aloud.

"It's about you. This wouldn't be worth it otherwise." It's not everything, but it's enough and my heart lurches painfully against her touch, her fingertips fluttering near my hairline as they nervously trace strands back into place. She sucks in a deep breath, holding it down with her lips drawn tight. The sensation makes me feel foolish for forcing those words from her because she hasn't ask me for any sort of definition and I can only assume that it's another part of her strength.

Her expression slowly softens, affection laid bare and I hope she understands the implication of my question or at least reads it on my face, because seriously it feels like it's bursting out of me. It's way more than just sex, even if I don't have a word to classify it, and it seems to have the power to leave me speechless and without the ability to do anything; because I'm just standing there, my hands clinging to her waist and to the hope that maybe she's better at this sort of thing and already knows how I feel.

However it comes to her, it must be enough because this time when her hands slips downward to trace a solid path down the front of me, her face gentles – a reassuring nod brushing her lips against mine. She's shifting her hands then, pushing flat palms against me, fingers driving down until they're shoved down into the front pockets of my slacks, using this position as leverage to drag me in closer, our lips bumping softly until she tilts her head to the side to press a lingering kiss against my mouth.

This time, she's not leaving any room for my doubt. She might as well be etching her declaration along my skin for the time she spends just lingering.

With her fingers still curled into my pockets, holding me captive against her, she's smiling as she breaks the kiss. The corner of her mouth nudges up even further mischievously, one of her hands slipping free to follow the line of my buttons upward, loosening just the very highest one before tracing her lips downward, skimming them along the narrow strip of skin that she's revealed. She does it again, one more button then a trail of kisses, each time returning to my face, sometimes kissing, sometimes just watching me as she works loose the next button.

Once she's opened my blouse, her fingers skate across my stomach, pushing away the fabric to hook her hands behind my back. It draws us together, her fingers spreading and exploring once she has me settled against her and something finally reminds me to move. I wish I could match her slow, reverent touch but once my excitement takes hold, I'm dragging her shirt up without pretense, claiming the permissions she's given me to clutch my fingers into her skin, using the slope of her lower back to urge her closer still.

It leaves our mouths clashing, forcing our heads to tilt; seeking the angle that will allow our lips to meet. The kiss hangs on as my hands follow down, cupping her ass roughly to feel her hips buck into mine. When she stumbles back, I'm too entangled to do anything but fall on top of her, into the bed.

The move breaks the kiss and her gentle hold, giving me the chance to drag her t-shirt up and off of her completely. She's much quieter than I remember, nothing but open mouthed gasps and sighs and almost seem shy as I look down at her. Her hips squirm beneath me until she has her thighs spread, my body settling between them and I see something in her hooded gaze that stops me.

My stillness only intensifies the drifting darkness in her and I ask, "What's wrong?" I'm afraid of her answer, but hell, I'm confused and at this point I don't want to make this any more complicated.

But she just lets out a little laugh, head tipping back with a grin. When she lifts her head back up, rolling her eyes indulgently as I feel her lift her legs, wrapping them behind my thighs.

"I just like you _here,_" she says, her calves squeezing against me, forcing me to press more firmly against the apex of her thighs. There are layers of fabric and not really enough points of contact but I can feel how hot and wet she is, the scent suddenly obvious.

"Here?" I ask, giving into the teasing look that's lighting those eyes with a quick thrust of my hips against hers.

That makes her smile, a low hum rumbling from her lips as she digs her heels into me. She shoves my blouse off my shoulders, her fingers returning to pull me close once it falls loosely to the ground. With another little tug, she pulls me more fully over her and I suddenly can't keep track of where we're going. The rest of our clothes are wriggled loose and she giggles when I have to get up to wrestle her jeans free of her ankles. I'm laughing too and come back to her quickly, the warmth of her soft skin against mine drawing me in.

She stays there, her legs moving to wrap around my hips once more, dragging me into kiss after kiss as I find a way to work my fingers between us, finding her wetness with them because I just keep remembering what it felt like when she slipped her fingers inside of me. It's a tight angle and my wrist strains as I try first one finger, then another, her grip tightening roughly into my hair, gasping harshly into my mouth as I begin to move. My hips help increase the friction and it feels like too soon when she starts to tighten and jerk beneath me, her body arching up against me. I watch her eyes, open but unfocused, as she comes with a staggered whimper against me.

She's breathing roughly, lips dragged down against my throat now and I can't seem to pull my fingers out of her, part of me terrified that ending this will mean going back to the conversation at hand and I'm not ready to let go of the high I'm feeling at the sight of her. But when I feel her hands moving, sliding up my back and pulling herself back up so that I can see her face, I realize I'm wrong because she's got this grin that looks much more like those romanticized fantasies than anything I've seen from her yet. Her hair is rumpled around her head, her cheeks flushed, and that voice in my head is just saying, _Yeah, you made the right choice._

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__**Thanks for those who are still reading. You'd think after almost 30,000 words I'd be more comfortable writing these two but honestly, I'm not. It constantly feels a bit like writer's block except... I'm still going.**


	6. Chapter 6

**And finally here is Chapter 6. Writing dialogue is... rough for me, so I've been easily distracted by other things. Hopefully you haven't all entirely given up on me.**

**Just a reminder this story involves Kate Beckett and Alexis Castle several years in the future and is rated M for a reason. **

* * *

It takes another hour or so before we get back to talking because I can't seem to resist her smile. When it shifted from blissful to something darker, I was so sucked in that before I knew it, she flipped me over and hauled me across her bed, teasing me about how apparently even my stomach can blush. She used her mouth to work me up while her hands held me down with a feat of coordination I certainly could not have accomplished.

But she does, both moves leaving behind red marks that tingle more than they ache. It wasn't until she had one hand on my stomach and the other clutching my thigh that I realized that she was going to use her mouth this time and I wanted to tell her that no one's ever done that to me, but she was too quick, too focused, and besides it felt backwards to confess at this point.

It was shockingly different – her mouth was mostly soft, the touches never quite enough but just enough to get me gasping and I'm still not entirely sure how she got me there like that. But she did. The process left me sweating, sticky, and a bit embarrassed because I'm pretty sure I sounded all kinds of desperate because I didn't manage a single coherent thought the entire time, but I know I kept trying to talk to her, to ask her for more, to just press a bit harder and stop the torture that she was inflicting upon me. Meanwhile, I was boneless and babbling, she whispered to me the whole time – a winding, teasing thread of declarations that centered around letting me know exactly what she was doing and how much she liked it.

I'd done nothing, lying there useless – my best effort little more than bucking and writhing under her touch and raking my fingers into her hair – just trying to move enough to create more friction. And so I wasn't really sure what exactly I'd done that pleased her. Instead, I just felt like I'd come to a whole new appreciation of the term "pillow queen."

As I came back down, she lingered there, tracing her fingers against my thighs as I tried to reassemble my ability to think.

She didn't move until I lifted my head to look towards the door. My phone was out in the living room, forgotten along with my purse and the faint, distant sound of it ringing drifted back to her bedroom, pulling us back to reality. I made no move to get it, mostly because I was complete mush and I would have been lucky to make it a few steps on my shaky knees.

Now I'm watching her rise up, slowly crawling up to lay beside me. I'm still flat on my back and she has to lean down to brush a kiss against my forehead before propping herself upright against the headboard. Once she settles, I discover that tilting my head back a bit allows me to see her there, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles and still distractingly bare. But her eyes are still focused on the door, her lip clamped tightly between her teeth in concentration.

"Do you need to go back into the precinct today?" The question is automatic; out before I can think because she seems to have short circuited my already faulty verbal filter. Really, I'm beginning to realize that this is a talent of hers and I wonder if it's just me or if this is some sort of skill she developed for interrogations.

"No – I'm not officially on duty these next few days so that I can be free to deal with the trial prep," she replies easily, pushing back her hair as it falls with the tilt of her head. I'm under her gaze now and find I can't keep my eyes up – too distracted by her skin to really focus. "You should stay for dinner – Do you need to get that?" she adds suddenly, her head tossing a nod towards the door, towards my phone.

I should, but I'm not sure what to do. It's strange; she's not covering up but her position separates us, only the edge of her hip brushing against my shoulder and the conversation is too small and casual so soon after this. I'm cooling off quickly and am mentally calculating how to pull the sheets up over my skin - so why in the world are we talking about dinner and phone calls?

Perhaps my confusion is written on my face or else she really is a mind reader because she sinks down then, pulling the sheets up over us before tucking herself up against me, tentatively draping an arm across my stomach. With another little wriggle, she tucks her face against my shoulder, settling in with a light kiss on my skin. "You can shower if you want… might need one too," she mumbles softly against my neck, her mouth slipping against my skin in a lazy nuzzle.

It's so easy to give in to her, warmth tingling through me as she smiles against my jaw. But she's right and I'm sticky and wet and it's not long before I realize I do need that shower.

Gently, I manage to sit myself up, her eyes following my movements. "Shower?"

"Yeah... is there a towel?" I ask tentatively, eyeing the sheet still covering us both. I'm such an idiot about this and I shake my head, knowing there's no reason not to just get up and walk in there without covering up.

"Should be everything you need in there."

As soon as I slide off the bed, she collapses back against the pillows, her eyes slipping shut as I make my way to her bathroom.

When I leave Kate, it's with trembling fingers and unfamiliar underwear she pulled casually from her dresser. After getting out of the shower, I'd discovered that Dad expected me home for dinner and that my underwear was most definitely not wearable without washing. Fortunately, Kate seemed to realize the issue the moment I picked the scrap of fabric up from the floor and had just... handed me a pair of her own.

Once I was dressed, we got to the difficult part. It was still haunting me as I rode home in the cab. It's never been easy for me to talk with my dad about my dating life. He was over protective and over dramatic about them all – none were ever good enough in his eyes, so I usually refrained from telling him until I'd reached the point in the relationship that things were serious enough to warrant the production that would be made in the telling. But this was different and both of us knew it.

When Kate insisted that it be sooner rather than later, I hated her for just a moment. She was right, of course, but I was definitely developing the procrastination bone that my dad liked to tease I'd failed to inherit from him. The feeling was short-lived though because she still hadn't bothered to get dressed and the sight of her bare back distracted me. In the end, we decided that tomorrow at dinner, we would tell him.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed with my hand playing across her skin, it seemed doable, but now I just feel like an idiot because it's never going to be easy and I'm not sure that I shouldn't just redirect the cab to Paige's parents' place and make plans to spend the rest of the summer there. It's all just a mess and twice on the ride home, I nearly call out my phone to call Kate, before shoving it back down in my pocket.

And now I'm almost home as my phone rings again. It's Dad, wondering when I'll be there for dinner according to his voicemail. Even though he's promising one of my favorite dishes - chicken carbonara - my appetite is gone. Forget butterflies, my stomach feels like boulders being churned by massive industrial mixers, the metal gnashing against the stone.

So once I'm home, I beg off dinner, even when Dad pulls out his best pout and the "but you're going back to college so soon" card. If I'd been thinking more clearly, I might have realized that skipping dinner, especially chicken carbonara, would set off his overprotective-father mode even more than a handful of bad lies and awkward silences. When I hear the second clatter of dishes on the floor followed by muttered curses, it becomes clear that this is probably a deliberate attempt to draw me out.

When dinner is ready and he comes knocking at my door with two plates of steaming creamy chicken and pasta, I give in, aware that his stunts may well escalate to something more dangerous than a few broken pieces of flatware if I continue to try to hide out. We end up on my bed, plates in our laps as he tries desperately to avoid asking the question on his mind; Instead he opts for recounting the tales of his college misadventures, which I suspect mostly involved the consumption of far too much beer and bravado, though he only admits to the latter.

Once our plates are empty, I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking perhaps that our bonding time has assuaged his worries. But as he stacks our plates and sets them aside on the end table, I can see the tightness returning to his expression as he settles back against my pillows. I have to wonder just how obvious the waves of tension I am trying to control are showing on my face because haven't picnicked on my bed since seventh grade when I'd come home from school freaking out because Jacob Zimmer had stolen a kiss in the all after homeroom and told the entire class about it. That awareness drops my anxiety right back down into my gut. I figure my only hope at this point is that he's going to be so far off the mark that there would be no need to evade him.

"So how was your visit with Beckett this morning?"

The question completely throws me and I immediately start trying to recall who had been on the sidewalk this morning at the cafe. I'm pretty sure it leaves me gaping and stammering out incoherent syllable for nearly a minute before I manage to string some of them together into something a bit more substantial - though not by much. "It was... okay. How - how did you know I went to see her?"

My voice is practically squeaking as I try to force the words out of my clenching throat. To make matters worse, my hands are shaking with tremors and I have to clasp them together to keep them from fluttering about nervously.

He chuckles briefly, reaching out to settle his hand over my clenched ones. "I waasn't stalking you or anything. I was doing some writing and just hit a wall and decided to get some air. Just so happens that I came around the corner just as she was picking you up in the front of that coffee place that only uses fat free milk."

His hand is supposed to be comforting, calming, but of course, it doesn't work because I'm completely freaking out. That whole plan that Kate and I had worked out is gone - out the window - and I can already feel my strength wavering. Finally, I just pull my hands away, crossing my arms to trap them beneath my elbows against my sides before staring down at my feet.

He sighs then, shifting behind me, and while I can't bring myself to look at him for just how hot and red my skin is, I can feel him trying to get a read on my expression, his head just beyond my peripheral vision.

"Did she say something that upset you? I mean, Beckett is a really good person, but sometimes even she says things without thinking, especially if she's faced with something she doesn't expect. I can talk to her, you know, if you want. Maybe -"

"Stop. Just… stop." I finally manage to mutter, the words bursting out a bit too loud because I just need him to stop rambling. Maybe I was hoping that he'd go in the wrong direction, but this is going to end up being one of those holes that gets dug down so deep there's just now way to come back.  
It works though and I feel him holding back, waiting quietly beside me as he draws his arms over his chest to mirror my posture. I want to say something, anything really but my voice seems trapped by the lump in my throat and I can feel the tears starting to burn and threaten in my eyes.

"This isn't just… a crush, is it? You really like her."

He's all gentle, almost fragile, and my heart just clenches up in response. I might not be a little girl anymore, but I feel like one as he reaches out and brushes my hair back out of my face, leaning forward enough to move into my line of vision. Somehow, he seems to show not a single sign of anything other than affection and concern as he tucks the hair behind my ear, letting his knuckles graze gently down my cheek.

I don't realize that I'm nodding until I feel him leaning over and using both arms to haul me against his chest into a sort of hug that has me leaning awkwardly backward until he curls me over on my side. "I guess this means you told her...?"

It's barely a question, most of it getting lost in the hair on top of my head. I feel his throat bobbing against my cheek as he swallows, waiting, holding me against him - I suppose he's hoping that I will in the cracks in the story, but I'm too busy trying to remember to breath. Trying to remember those phrases that Kate and I had discussed. Trying to remember the damn plan. Not blushing like a school girl would help too.

"What happened?" he finally prompts when I just lay there, trembling and panting against his chest. Maybe I nod or somehow acknowledge that question, but I don't know as I try to come up with something, anything that might answer his question and not kill him in the process.

"She already knew..." The words come out like a whisper but I feel his arms jerk slightly, tightening around me. "Apparently I'm not all that subtle..." I'm going for humor, figuring it will fall flat.

But he takes it, joking back, "Subtlety is definitely not a family trait."

For a moment, we both nod, huffing a few times with tense laughter before he finally releases me. I uncurl myself then, settling back on my side of the bed, too chicken to look at him once more. We are treading deeper and deeper into the conversation and it feels like the less I say, the more he knows. Most of the time, I know how lucky I am to have such a bond with him, but tonight, I would have given anything to trade him for the kind of Dad who spends too much time at work and has no ideal how to deal with his now adult daughter.

His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, giving me a light nudge as he points out, "She's quite a bit older than you, Alexis." He's going for concerned, but I can feel the frustration grating in his voice and I feel like I'm losing years of experience under his gaze.

Nodding, I pull myself fully upright, shaking off his hand in the process, and sit cross-legged far enough out on the bed to put everything but his legs behind me.

"I'm not..." he begins, then falls silent, staying that way for way too long, letting my nerves tangle even more dangerously inside my chest.

"I don't know what to say," I finally admit, needing to let something out before I blow up - quite literally as I can feel my carbonara threatening to make a return visit, burning and gurgling in my throat. "This is just so... awkward."

His sigh seems to echo through the room as his hand settles against my back, stroking along my hunched back in a way that is reminiscent of a gesture I remember from days spent sick in bed.

"Awkward doesn't even begin to cover this… I still can't bring myself to accept the fact that you're not eight and waiting for me to braid your hair before bedtime. This…" Yet another sigh rumbles from him, his fingers tightening then clutching the fabric at the back of my shirt. "Why couldn't it just be some handsome anonymous rich guy with his own business and a passion for social justice who is twice your age?"

Without even looking, I know he's breaking behind me.

"It just sort of... happened. One day she was Detective Beckett and the next... I just couldn't stop thinking about her. It was like I'd never seen her before," I try to explain. I want to shore him up, fix the pain that I know is lurking inside of him, even if he is trying desperately to keep me from seeing it.

We sit there in silence then for what feels like all night. His fingers refuse to release my shirt and I refuse to look up from my lap, my fingers hooked together and wringing nervously as I listen for any hint at what he is thinking back there.

Eventually, he is the one to break that awful silence. "One of these days, you two are going to kill me."

I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to that and just freeze, hoping he will say something more, something that didn't sound so... hopeless.

"I won't try to stop you, Alexis. You're an adult and so is Kate... and... God, there are just so many things wrong with this - I don't even know where to start." His fingers drop from my shirt then and before I can bring myself to look, he's rolling off my bed. When he speaks again, he's at the door. "I'm going to..."

"I'm sorry, Dad." The apology is automatic - I still can't look because I just know his face is tense and tight with emotion.

"Me, too, Pumpkin. See you in the morning," he offers softly, then leaves.

The moment he's gone, I reach for my phone, intending to call Kate to tell her. To warn my fingers are still shaking and instead, I lean back against my pillows and try to still the sick feeling that's sitting in my gut.


End file.
